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Chapter no 1 – A Death at the Needle

The Red Pyramid

WE ONLY HAVE A FEW HOURS,ย so listen carefully.

If youโ€™re hearing this story, youโ€™re already in danger. Sadie and I might be your only chance.

Go to the school. Find the locker. I wonโ€™t tell you which school or which locker, because if youโ€™re the right person, youโ€™ll find it. The combination is 13/32/33. By the time you finish listening, youโ€™ll know what those numbers mean. Just remember the story weโ€™re about to tell you isnโ€™t complete yet. How it ends will depend on you.

The most important thing: when you open the package and find whatโ€™s inside, donโ€™t keep it longer than a week. Sure, itโ€™ll be tempting. I mean, it will grant you almost unlimited power. But if you possess it too long, it will consume you. Learn its secrets quickly and pass it on. Hide it for the next person, the way Sadie and I did for you. Then be prepared for your life to get very interesting.

Okay, Sadie is telling me to stop stalling and get on with the story. Fine.

I guess it started in London, the night our dad blew up the British Museum.

My name is Carter Kane. Iโ€™m fourteen and my home is a suitcase.

You think Iโ€™m kidding? Since I was eight years old, my dad and I have traveled the world. I was born in L.A. but my dadโ€™s an archaeologist, so his work takes him all over. Mostly we go to Egypt, since thatโ€™s his specialty. Go into a bookstore, find a book about Egypt, thereโ€™s a pretty good chance it was written by Dr. Julius Kane. You want to know how Egyptians pulled the brains out of mummies, or built the pyramids, or cursed King Tutโ€™s tomb? My dad is your man. Of course, there are other reasons my dad moved around so much, but I didnโ€™t know his secret back then.

I didnโ€™t go to school. My dad homeschooled me, if you can call it โ€œhomeโ€ schooling when you donโ€™t have a home. He sort of taught me whatever he thought was important, so I learned a lot about Egypt and basketball stats and my dadโ€™s favorite musicians. I read a lot, tooโ€”pretty much anything I could get my hands on, from dadโ€™s history books to fantasy novelsโ€”because I spent a lot of time sitting around in hotels and airports and dig sites in foreign countries where I didnโ€™t know anybody. My dad was

always telling me to put the book down and play some ball. You ever try to start a game of pick-up basketball in Aswan, Egypt? Itโ€™s not easy.

Anyway, my dad trained me early to keep all my possessions in a single suitcase that fits in an airplaneโ€™s overhead compartment. My dad packed the same way, except he was allowed an extra workbag for his archaeology tools. Rule number one: I was not allowed to look in his workbag. Thatโ€™s a rule I never broke until the day of the explosion.

It happened on Christmas Eve. We were in London for visitation day with my sister, Sadie.

See, Dadโ€™s only allowed two days a year with herโ€”one in the winter, one in the summerโ€”because our grandparents hate him. After our mom died, her parents (our grandparents) had this big court battle with Dad. After six lawyers, two fistfights, and a near fatal attack with a spatula (donโ€™t ask), they won the right to keep Sadie with them in England. She was only six, two years younger than me, and they couldnโ€™t keep us bothโ€”at least that was their excuse for not taking me. So Sadie was raised as a British schoolkid, and I traveled around with my dad. We only saw Sadie twice a year, which was fine with me.

[Shut up, Sadie. Yesโ€”Iโ€™m getting to that part.]

So anyway, my dad and I had just flown into Heathrow after a couple of delays. It was a drizzly, cold afternoon. The whole taxi ride into the city, my dad seemed kind of nervous.

Now, my dad is a big guy. You wouldnโ€™t think anything could make him nervous. He has dark brown skin like mine, piercing brown eyes, a bald head, and a goatee, so he looks like a buff evil scientist. That afternoon he wore his cashmere winter coat and his best brown suit, the one he used for public lectures. Usually he exudes so much confidence that he dominates any room he walks into, but sometimesโ€”like that afternoonโ€”I saw another side to him that I didnโ€™t really understand. He kept looking over his shoulder like we were being hunted.

โ€œDad?โ€ I said as we were getting off the A-40. โ€œWhatโ€™s wrong?โ€

โ€œNo sign of them,โ€ he muttered. Then he mustโ€™ve realized heโ€™d spoken aloud, because he looked at me kind of startled. โ€œNothing, Carter. Everythingโ€™s fine.โ€

Which bothered me because my dadโ€™s a terrible liar. I always knew when he was hiding something, but I also knew no amount of pestering would get the truth out of him. He was probably trying to protect me, though from what I didnโ€™t know. Sometimes I wondered if he had some dark secret in his past, some old enemy following him, maybe; but the idea seemed ridiculous. Dad was just an archaeologist.

The other thing that troubled me: Dad was clutching his workbag.

Usually when he does that, it means weโ€™re in danger. Like the time gunmen stormed our hotel in Cairo. I heard shots coming from the lobby and ran downstairs to check on my dad. By the time I got there, he was just calmly zipping up his workbag while three unconscious gunmen hung by their feet from the chandelier, their robes falling over their heads so you could see their boxer shorts. Dad claimed not to have witnessed anything, and in the end the police blamed a freak chandelier malfunction.

Another time, we got caught in a riot in Paris. My dad found the nearest parked car, pushed me into the backseat, and told me to stay down. I pressed myself against the floorboards and kept my eyes shut tight. I could hear Dad in the driverโ€™s seat, rummaging in his bag, mumbling something to himself while the mob yelled and destroyed things outside. A few minutes later he told me it was safe to get up. Every other car on the block had been overturned and set on fire. Our car had been freshly washed and polished, and several twenty-euro notes had been tucked under the windshield wipers.

Anyway, Iโ€™d come to respect the bag. It was our good luck charm. But when my dad kept it close, it meant we were going to need good luck.

We drove through the city center, heading east toward my grandparentsโ€™ flat. We passed the golden gates of Buckingham Palace, the big stone column in Trafalgar Square. London is a pretty cool place, but after youโ€™ve traveled for so long, all cities start to blend together. Other kids I meet sometimes say, โ€œWow, youโ€™re so lucky you get to travel so much.โ€ But itโ€™s not like we spend our time sightseeing or have a lot of money to travel in style. Weโ€™ve stayed in some pretty rough places, and we hardly ever stay anywhere longer than a few days. Most of the time it feels like weโ€™re fugitives rather than tourists.

I mean, you wouldnโ€™t think my dadโ€™s work was dangerous. He does lectures on topics like โ€œCan Egyptian Magic Really Kill You?โ€ and โ€œFavorite Punishments in the Egyptian Underworldโ€ and other stuff most people wouldnโ€™t care about. But like I said, thereโ€™s that other side to him. Heโ€™s always very cautious, checking every hotel room before he lets me walk into it. Heโ€™ll dart into a museum to see some artifacts, take a few notes, and rush out again like heโ€™s afraid to be caught on the security cameras.

One time when I was younger, we raced across the Charles de Gaulle airport to catch a last-minute flight, and Dad didnโ€™t relax until the plane was off the ground, I asked him point blank what he was running from, and he looked at me like Iโ€™d just pulled the pin out of a grenade. For a second I was scared he might actually tell me the truth. Then he said, โ€œCarter, itโ€™s nothing.โ€ As if โ€œnothingโ€ were the most terrible thing in the world.

After that, I decided maybe it was better not to ask questions.

My grandparents, the Fausts, live in a housing development near Canary Wharf, right on the banks of the River Thames. The taxi let us off at the curb,

and my dad asked the driver to wait.

We were halfway up the walk when Dad froze. He turned and looked behind us.

โ€œWhat?โ€ I asked.

Then I saw the man in the trench coat. He was across the street, leaning against a big dead tree. He was barrel shaped, with skin the color of roasted coffee. His coat and black pinstriped suit looked expensive. He had long braided hair and wore a black fedora pulled down low over his dark round glasses. He reminded me of a jazz musician, the kind my dad would always drag me to see in concert. Even though I couldnโ€™t see his eyes, I got the impression he was watching us. He mightโ€™ve been an old friend or colleague of Dadโ€™s. No matter where we went, Dad was always running into people he knew. But it did seem strange that the guy was waiting here, outside my grandparentsโ€™. And he didnโ€™t look happy.

โ€œCarter,โ€ my dad said, โ€œgo on ahead.โ€ โ€œButโ€”โ€

โ€œGet your sister. Iโ€™ll meet you back at the taxi.โ€

He crossed the street toward the man in the trench coat, which left me with two choices: follow my dad and see what was going on, or do what I was told.

I decided on the slightly less dangerous path. I went to retrieve my sister.

Before I could even knock, Sadie opened the door. โ€œLate as usual,โ€ she said.

She was holding her cat, Muffin, whoโ€™d been a โ€œgoing awayโ€ gift from Dad six years before. Muffin never seemed to get older or bigger. She had fuzzy yellow-and-black fur like a miniature leopard, alert yellow eyes, and pointy ears that were too tall for her head. A silver Egyptian pendant dangled from her collar. She didnโ€™t look anything like a muffin, but Sadie had been little when she named her, so I guess you have to cut her some slack.

Sadie hadnโ€™t changed much either since last summer.

[As Iโ€™m recording this, sheโ€™s standing next to me, glaring, so Iโ€™d better be careful how I describe her.]

You would never guess sheโ€™s my sister. First of all, sheโ€™d been living in England so long, she has a British accent. Second, she takes after our mom, who was white, so Sadieโ€™s skin is much lighter than mine. She has straight caramel-colored hair, not exactly blond but not brown, which she usually dyes with streaks of bright colors. That day it had red streaks down the left side. Her eyes are blue. Iโ€™m serious. Blue eyes, just like our momโ€™s. Sheโ€™s only twelve, but sheโ€™s exactly as tall as me, which is really annoying. She was chewing gum as usual, dressed for her day out with Dad in battered jeans, a leather jacket, and combat boots, like she was going to a concert and was

hoping to stomp on some people. She had headphones dangling around her neck in case we bored her.

[Okay, she didnโ€™t hit me, so I guess I did an okay job of describing her.] โ€œOur plane was late,โ€ I told her.

She popped a bubble, rubbed Muffinโ€™s head, and tossed the cat inside. โ€œGran, going out!โ€

From somewhere in the house, Grandma Faust said something I couldnโ€™t make out, probably โ€œDonโ€™t let them in!โ€

Sadie closed the door and regarded me as if I were a dead mouse her cat had just dragged in. โ€œSo, here you are again.โ€

โ€œYep.โ€

โ€œCome on, then.โ€ She sighed. โ€œLetโ€™s get on with it.โ€

Thatโ€™s the way she was. No โ€œHi, how you been the last six months? So glad to see you!โ€ or anything. But that was okay with me. When you only see each other twice a year, itโ€™s like youโ€™re distant cousins rather than siblings. We had absolutely nothing in common except our parents.

We trudged down the steps. I was thinking how she smelled like a combination of old peopleโ€™s house and bubble gum when she stopped so abruptly, I ran into her.

โ€œWhoโ€™s that?โ€ she asked.

Iโ€™d almost forgotten about the dude in the trench coat. He and my dad were standing across the street next to the big tree, having what looked like a serious argument. Dadโ€™s back was turned so I couldnโ€™t see his face, but he gestured with his hands like he does when heโ€™s agitated. The other guy scowled and shook his head.

โ€œDunno,โ€ I said. โ€œHe was there when we pulled up.โ€

โ€œHe looks familiar.โ€ Sadie frowned like she was trying to remember. โ€œCome on.โ€

โ€œDad wants us to wait in the cab,โ€ I said, even though I knew it was no use. Sadie was already on the move.

Instead of going straight across the street, she dashed up the sidewalk for half a block, ducking behind cars, then crossed to the opposite side and crouched under a low stone wall. She started sneaking toward our dad. I didnโ€™t have much choice but to follow her example, even though it made me feel kind of stupid.

โ€œSix years in England,โ€ I muttered, โ€œand she thinks sheโ€™s James Bond.โ€ Sadie swatted me without looking back and kept creeping forward.

A couple more steps and we were right behind the big dead tree. I could hear my dad on the other side, saying, โ€œโ€”have to, Amos. You know itโ€™s the right thing.โ€

โ€œNo,โ€ said the other man, who mustโ€™ve been Amos. His voice was deep and evenโ€”very insistent. His accent was American. โ€œIf I donโ€™t stop you,

Julius, they will. The Per Ankh is shadowing you.โ€

Sadie turned to me and mouthed the words โ€œPer what?โ€

I shook my head, just as mystified. โ€œLetโ€™s get out of here,โ€ I whispered, because I figured weโ€™d be spotted any minute and get in serious trouble. Sadie, of course, ignored me.

โ€œThey donโ€™t know my plan,โ€ my father was saying. โ€œBy the time they figure it outโ€”โ€

โ€œAnd the children?โ€ Amos asked. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. โ€œWhat about them?โ€

โ€œIโ€™ve made arrangements to protect them,โ€ my dad said. โ€œBesides, if I donโ€™t do this, weโ€™re all in danger. Now, back off.โ€

โ€œI canโ€™t, Julius.โ€

โ€œThen itโ€™s a duel you want?โ€ Dadโ€™s tone turned deadly serious. โ€œYou never could beat me, Amos.โ€

I hadnโ€™t seen my dad get violent since the Great Spatula Incident, and I wasnโ€™t anxious to see a repeat of that, but the two men seemed to be edging toward a fight.

Before I could react, Sadie popped up and shouted, โ€œDad!โ€

He looked surprised when she tackle-hugged him, but not nearly as surprised as the other guy, Amos. He backed up so quickly, he tripped over his own trench coat.

Heโ€™d taken off his glasses. I couldnโ€™t help thinking that Sadie was right.

He did look familiarโ€”like a very distant memory.

โ€œIโ€”I must be going,โ€ he said. He straightened his fedora and lumbered down the road.

Our dad watched him go. He kept one arm protectively around Sadie and one hand inside the workbag slung over his shoulder. Finally, when Amos disappeared around the corner, Dad relaxed. He took his hand out of the bag and smiled at Sadie. โ€œHello, sweetheart.โ€

Sadie pushed away from him and crossed her arms. โ€œOh, now itโ€™s sweetheart, is it? Youโ€™re late. Visitation Dayโ€™s nearly over! And what was that about? Whoโ€™s Amos, and whatโ€™s the Per Ankh?โ€

Dad stiffened. He glanced at me like he was wondering how much weโ€™d overheard.

โ€œItโ€™s nothing,โ€ he said, trying to sound upbeat. โ€œI have a wonderful evening planned. Whoโ€™d like a private tour of the British Museum?โ€

Sadie slumped in the back of the taxi between Dad and me.

โ€œI canโ€™t believe it,โ€ she grumbled. โ€œOne evening together, and you want to do research.โ€

Dad tried for a smile. โ€œSweetheart, itโ€™ll be fun. The curator of the Egyptian collection personally invitedโ€”โ€

โ€œRight, big surprise.โ€ Sadie blew a strand of red-streaked hair out of her face. โ€œChristmas Eve, and weโ€™re going to see some moldy old relics from Egypt. Do you ever think about anything else?โ€

Dad didnโ€™t get mad. He never gets mad at Sadie. He just stared out the window at the darkening sky and the rain.

โ€œYes,โ€ he said quietly. โ€œI do.โ€

Whenever Dad got quiet like that and stared off into nowhere, I knew he was thinking about our mom. The last few months, it had been happening a lot. Iโ€™d walk into our hotel room and find him with his cell phone in his hands, Momโ€™s picture smiling up at him from the screenโ€”her hair tucked under a headscarf, her blue eyes startlingly bright against the desert backdrop. Or weโ€™d be at some dig site. Iโ€™d see Dad staring at the horizon, and Iโ€™d know he was remembering how heโ€™d met herโ€”two young scientists in the Valley of the Kings, on a dig to discover a lost tomb. Dad was an Egyptologist. Mom was an anthropologist looking for ancient DNA. Heโ€™d

told me the story a thousand times.

Our taxi snaked its way along the banks of the Thames. Just past Waterloo Bridge, my dad tensed.

โ€œDriver,โ€ he said. โ€œStop here a moment.โ€

The cabbie pulled over on the Victoria Embankment. โ€œWhat is it, Dad?โ€ I asked.

He got out of the cab like he hadnโ€™t heard me. When Sadie and I joined him on the sidewalk, he was staring up at Cleopatraโ€™s Needle.

In case youโ€™ve never seen it: the Needle is an obelisk, not a needle, and it doesnโ€™t have anything to do with Cleopatra. I guess the British just thought the name sounded cool when they brought it to London. Itโ€™s about seventy feet tall, which wouldโ€™ve been really impressive back in Ancient Egypt, but on the Thames, with all the tall buildings around, it looks small and sad. You could drive right by it and not even realize youโ€™d just passed something that was a thousand years older than the city of London.

โ€œGod.โ€ Sadie walked around in a frustrated circle. โ€œDo we have to stop for every monument?โ€

My dad stared at the top of the obelisk. โ€œI had to see it again,โ€ he murmured. โ€œWhere it happened…โ€

A freezing wind blew off the river. I wanted to get back in the cab, but my dad was really starting to worry me. Iโ€™d never seen him so distracted.

โ€œWhat, Dad?โ€ I asked. โ€œWhat happened here?โ€ โ€œThe last place I saw her.โ€

Sadie stopped pacing. She scowled at me uncertainly, then back at Dad. โ€œHang on. Do you mean Mum?โ€

Dad brushed Sadieโ€™s hair behind her ear, and she was so surprised, she didnโ€™t even push him away.

I felt like the rain had frozen me solid. Momโ€™s death had always been a forbidden subject. I knew sheโ€™d died in an accident in London. I knew my grandparents blamed my dad. But no one would ever tell us the details. Iโ€™d given up asking my dad, partly because it made him so sad, partly because he absolutely refused to tell me anything. โ€œWhen youโ€™re olderโ€ was all he would say, which was the most frustrating response ever.

โ€œYouโ€™re telling us she died here,โ€ I said. โ€œAt Cleopatraโ€™s Needle? What happened?โ€

He lowered his head.

โ€œDad!โ€ Sadie protested. โ€œI go past this every day, and you mean to sayโ€” all this timeโ€”and I didnโ€™t even know?โ€

โ€œDo you still have your cat?โ€ Dad asked her, which seemed like a really stupid question.

โ€œOf course Iโ€™ve still got the cat!โ€ she said. โ€œWhat does that have to do with anything?โ€

โ€œAnd your amulet?โ€

Sadieโ€™s hand went to her neck. When we were little, right before Sadie went to live with our grandparents, Dad had given us both Egyptian amulets. Mine was an Eye of Horus, which was a popular protection symbol in Ancient Egypt.

image

In fact my dad says the modern pharmacistโ€™s symbol is a simplified version of the Eye of Horus, because medicine is supposed to protect you.

Anyway, I always wore my amulet under my shirt, but I figured Sadie wouldโ€™ve lost hers or thrown it away.

To my surprise, she nodded. โ€œโ€™Course I have it, Dad, but donโ€™t change the subject. Granโ€™s always going on about how you caused Mumโ€™s death. Thatโ€™s not true, is it?โ€

We waited. For once, Sadie and I wanted exactly the same thingโ€”the truth.

โ€œThe night your mother died,โ€ my father started, โ€œhere at the Needleโ€”โ€

A sudden flash illuminated the embankment. I turned, half blind, and just for a moment I glimpsed two figures: a tall pale man with a forked beard and wearing cream-colored robes, and a coppery-skinned girl in dark blue robes and a headscarfโ€”the kind of clothes Iโ€™d seen hundreds of times in Egypt. They were just standing there side by side, not twenty feet away, watching us. Then the light faded. The figures melted into a fuzzy afterimage. When my eyes readjusted to the darkness, they were gone.

โ€œUm…โ€ Sadie said nervously. โ€œDid you just see that?โ€

โ€œGet in the cab,โ€ my dad said, pushing us toward the curb. โ€œWeโ€™re out of

time.โ€

From that point on, Dad clammed up.

โ€œThis isnโ€™t the place to talk,โ€ he said, glancing behind us. Heโ€™d promised the cabbie an extra ten pounds if he got us to the museum in under five minutes, and the cabbie was doing his best.

โ€œDad,โ€ I tried, โ€œthose people at the riverโ€”โ€

โ€œAnd the other bloke, Amos,โ€ Sadie said. โ€œAre they Egyptian police or something?โ€

โ€œLook, both of you,โ€ Dad said, โ€œIโ€™m going to need your help tonight. I know itโ€™s hard, but you have to be patient. Iโ€™ll explain everything, I promise, after we get to the museum. Iโ€™m going to make everything right again.โ€

โ€œWhat do you mean?โ€ Sadie insisted. โ€œMake what right?โ€

Dadโ€™s expression was more than sad. It was almost guilty. With a chill, I thought about what Sadie had said: about our grandparents blaming him for Momโ€™s death. That couldnโ€™t be what he was talking about, could it?

The cabbie swerved onto Great Russell Street and screeched to a halt in front of the museumโ€™s main gates.

โ€œJust follow my lead,โ€ Dad told us. โ€œWhen we meet the curator, act normal.โ€

I was thinking that Sadie never acted normal, but I decided not to say anything.

We climbed out of the cab. I got our luggage while Dad paid the driver with a big wad of cash. Then he did something strange. He threw a handful of small objects into the backseatโ€”they looked like stones, but it was too dark for me to be sure. โ€œKeep driving,โ€ he told the cabbie. โ€œTake us to Chelsea.โ€

That made no sense since we were already out of the cab, but the driver sped off. I glanced at Dad, then back at the cab, and before it turned the corner and disappeared in the dark, I caught a weird glimpse of three passengers in the backseat: a man and two kids.

I blinked. There was no way the cab couldโ€™ve picked up another fare so fast. โ€œDadโ€”โ€

โ€œLondon cabs donโ€™t stay empty very long,โ€ he said matter-of-factly. โ€œCome along, kids.โ€

He marched off through the wrought iron gates. For a second, Sadie and I hesitated.

โ€œCarter, what is going on?โ€

I shook my head. โ€œIโ€™m not sure I want to know.โ€

โ€œWell, stay out here in the cold if you want, but Iโ€™m not leaving without an explanation.โ€ She turned and marched after our dad.

Looking back on it, I shouldโ€™ve run. I shouldโ€™ve dragged Sadie out of there and gotten as far away as possible. Instead I followed her through the gates.

โ€ŒC A R T E R

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