The Pharaoh's Secret (NUMA Files 13)

“It’s locked,” she said. “Aren’t these things supposed to remain open at all times?”

They went up one more level and found light streaming in through a window. “This is the roof,” Gamay said.

Paul tried the door, but it was also locked. Gamay responded by using the frame of the painting to smash the window out. Brushing away the glass, she climbed through.

Paul followed and tumbled out onto the museum’s roof. A small section around them was flat and tarred, but the rest was tiled and sloped. “There has to be another way down.”

Across the tiled section was another flat spot with a small hut on top. It looked exactly like the stairwell they’d just come out of. “That way,” he said.

Gamay went first as Paul looked around for a makeshift weapon. He saw nothing useful and charged after her. The green-tiled roof was steeply sloped on both sides, the tiles wet and worn smooth from decades in the French rain.

Paul and Gamay climbed up onto a flat section where the slopes met at the peak. It was no wider than a balance beam and one wrong step would send them tumbling.

They traversed the central section, jumped down onto the flat, tarred area and ran to the door. It was locked, but the window was quickly smashed.

Behind them, their pursuers were on the roof.

“You go,” Paul said. “I’ll hold them off.”

“No dice,” Gamay said. “That was a nice move inside, but we both know you’re no giant version of Bruce Lee. We stick together.”

“Fine,” Paul said, “but hurry.”

She handed him the painting, put her hands on the windowsill and screamed. When Paul turned, he saw that someone inside had grabbed her arms and was dragging her in. He grabbed her legs and pulled. A tug-of-war lasted a second and Gamay came flying out. There was blood on her mouth.

“You okay?” Paul asked.

“Remind me to get a tetanus shot when we get home.”

“That’s only if you get bitten,” Paul said. “Not if you do the biting.”

“Then never mind,” she said.

They were now trapped. Paul plucked a hand-sized chunk of broken tile from the rooftop, but it wasn’t much of a weapon. The man inside the second stairwell began to slam himself against the door.

“Now what?”

“The canal,” Paul said. “We’ll jump.”

They climbed onto the tiles again, but this time they went down the slope. Gamay had the balance of a mountain goat, but Paul felt that his height was now a hindrance. He found it hard to keep low enough not to have a sensation of falling forward.

He began sliding down on his backside. Gamay did the same and they eased toward the edge. They were four stories up with an eight-foot gap to cover.

Paul said, “That’s farther down than I thought.”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Gamay said.

“Maybe they’ll be afraid to follow.”

Behind them, the men were climbing onto the tiles. “Guess not. You first.”

Gamay tossed the painting down. It landed on the stone path beside the canal.

“Give us the painting,” one of the pursuers shouted. “It’s all we want.”

“Now he tells us,” Gamay said.

“Ready?” Paul asked.