by Peter James
48
Tuesday, 7 March
Back in the car, they began to head down the steep track, with the sheer drop to one side; it was even scarier going downhill. Ross tried to blank it out. While Hadidy wrestled the wheel, Ross focused on the small, enamel-like object with its tiny brown root.
Was there any possibility this could be real? One of Jesus of Nazareth’s teeth?
In a cave in Egypt?
It was almost impossible to believe and yet . . .
His knowledge of the scriptures, and of Egypt, was scant. He knew about the Old Testament Exodus. How the Jews fled Egypt.
Could someone really have returned with a tooth and hidden it in a remote cave in this country, with local peasants as its guardians?
As the serpentine dirt track ahead unwound through the front windscreen, at times so steep he was almost hanging forward against his seat belt, he watched Hatem Rasul leading the way, skilfully piloting his ancient motorcycle around the bends with the agility of someone half his age and the skill of an autocross racer. At times the machine seemed to slide away from him and he only remained upright by his feet skidding along the ground.
Then, above the sound of the vehicles’ engines, came the thrashing of a helicopter.
Hadidy let out what sounded like an oath. He was looking in his rear-view mirror.
Ross turned round, peering anxiously through the rear window. And saw the black underside of a helicopter, so low he could see the skids, swooping towards them.
His first thought was that it might be police or military. Were they in some illegal zone here?
He hurriedly wrapped the tooth back in the cloth and pushed it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
A shadow passed over them. As it did so he saw Hatem Rasul spin his motorbike round, 180 degrees, and race off back the way they had come.
Then the helicopter appeared through the front windscreen, a few hundred yards in front of them. The door was open and there was a man leaning out. There was no mistaking what was pointing at them. The long, black muzzle of a gun. He was aiming straight at them.
Hadidy screamed in fear.
Ross, terrified, snapped open his seat-belt buckle and threw himself down into the gap between the seats. He felt the car braking hard, its wheels locking up, sliding along on the sand.
He heard Hadidy cry out in terror as the Land Cruiser slewed violently.
Ross felt the car plunging.
The car pitched forward steeply – so steeply for a moment Ross thought it was going to roll, end over end. He could feel it picking up pace.
‘Hadidy!’ he yelled.
They were going faster.
Faster.
It felt like he was hurtling downhill in a roller coaster.
‘Hadidy!’ he yelled.
There was no reaction.
He cautiously raised himself. The driver’s door was open. Hadidy had bailed out. Ross looked behind him and glimpsed, way up on the ridge, his driver running away, fast.
The car was careering down a steep slope. Somehow, miraculously, still pointing forward.
Lurching, bumping, flying through the air. Crashing back down.
Ross reached over the seat in front of him, stretching round the headrest, and lunged at the steering wheel.
The car was heading straight for a rock.
He turned the wheel to the right and missed the boulder by inches. A drop was looming now. He turned the wheel to the left and the car went up a sandy embankment, almost tipping over onto its side. Then swinging right, back down towards the valley, the vehicle began to slide.
Heading sideways towards a rock face.
Somehow, the car missed it, and hurtled down a steep gully.
Then another. Zigzagging through an obstacle course of boulders.
He held on to the wheel, totally gripped by terror.
Moments later the car was heading up an incline towards a drift, and came to a jarring halt, planted in deep sand.
Jesus, no.
He scrambled out of the rear door and looked up. The helicopter was descending rapidly. He dived into the driver’s seat and looked down at the controls. He found the one for locking the differentials and accelerated hard. As the helicopter blotted out the sun, to his relief the vehicle moved forward, slowly, gaining traction. Up the sandy incline. Towards what looked like a precipice.
Shit. Shit.
He lifted his foot off the accelerator. As he did so the helicopter appeared right in front of him. He could see the man with the gun, door still open, aiming straight at him.
As he dived down below the dash and floored the accelerator, he heard a sound he had last heard in Afghanistan. A burst of gunfire.
The car lurched forward. Forward.
Towards the precipice.
If he stopped he was dead.
All the terror of Afghanistan came flooding back.
If he kept going he was probably dead, too.
He made the split-second decision to keep going. There was another burst of gunfire.
Then the car lurched crazily forward.
Falling.
He was catapulted upwards, against the steering wheel, his head striking the roof of the car painfully. Saw rock. Sky. Rock. Sky.
He hurtled down, striking his head against the steering wheel. Then, somehow, incredibly, he was back in the driving seat and the Land Cruiser, now the right way up, was hurtling down a steep, but no longer vertical, incline.
He gripped the jigging wheel. They were travelling at a crazy speed. More rocks and boulders ahead which he somehow avoided. The engine was screaming. Somehow, he did not know from where it came, he had the presence of mind to shift out of the diff lock position.
The engine note instantly changed.
The incline was becoming less steep and the valley was now just a short distance ahead.
So was the helicopter. He ducked below the dash as he saw flames from the muzzle of the gun and heard the crack and ping of bullets striking the ground in front of the car. Sitting up again, he understood what was happening. The man was trying to shoot his tyres out, to stop him.
He reached the valley and there was just one narrow route in front of him, through a gulley, bounded on either side by vertical cliffs. The helicopter dropped down and landed dead ahead. Again Ross ducked as flames spurted from the gun’s muzzle and he heard more bullets strike the rocks around the vehicle.
Suddenly, the man inside the open rear door stopped firing. He began tugging at the weapon, looking panicky. Either it had jammed or needed a magazine change. He yelled something at the pilot.
Ross saw his chance. He floored the accelerator pedal, feeling the car surge forward, getting full traction on the solid surface. The helicopter loomed closer. Closer. Closer.
The man in black was still struggling frantically with the gun and yelling at the pilot.
As he raced towards it, Ross saw a fog of sand rise up all around the helicopter. The pilot was trying to lift off.
No, no, no you don’t, you bastards!
The gap was closing. One hundred metres. Fifty. Twenty-five.
Ross could see air between the skids and the sand below.
Not enough. Oh no.
T-boning it full on would probably make it blow up, killing them all. At the last moment, seeing the look of terror in the gunman’s face, he jerked the wheel right and, gripping it tightly, threw himself down below the dash.
An instant later there was a jarring crash, glass was flying everywhere and he felt the blast of hot air.
He sat up and looked through what little remained of the windscreen, feeling hot, sandy air on his face, at a vast desert landscape. In his mirror, he saw the main section of the helicopter lying on its side. Its jagged tail end and rotor lay several yards away. Someone was struggling to get out.
He kept on going, traversing the dunes, until they were no more than a speck in his mirror. Then, on the crest of a particularly high one, he stopped, shaking.
A text. With trembling hands he pulled his phone out of his trouser pocket.
It was from Imogen.
How’s your day going? XX
49
Tuesday, 7 March
Somehow, despite all the damage it had suffered from gunfire and rolling, the Toyota was still running. Ross could barely think straight. He just knew he had to get out of here, and away from Luxor.
He stared ahead, through where the windscreen had been shortly before, at the arid, desert landscape, with a ridge of hills in the hazy distance. There was what looked like a track a short distance to his right. He tried to figure out the satnav, which came up on the screen in Arabic, but his hands were shaking so much that his fingers kept missing the button that might take him back to the previous destinations list. If he could get to that maybe it would have Luxor programmed in. Perhaps even the airport.
But all that happened when he finally touched it was that the screen froze.
Then he remembered Google Maps on his iPhone and pulled that out. To his relief there was a weak 3G signal. Enough for the app to work. But with his shaking hands it took him several minutes before he was able to enter ‘Luxor Airport’.
To his amazement, the device found it. A round blue symbol with a white aircraft outline appeared. And a pulsing blue symbol showing where he was. Two hours and thirty-five minutes’ driving time, it informed him. And the route took him along the track he was already on.
He checked his watch. It was currently just after 3 p.m. His flight was 5.55 p.m. No chance. He looked around nervously. But there was no sign of any movement. The engine laboured and hot desert air blasted his face. He was thirsty. He lifted up the centre console and saw several small bottles of water in what looked like a built-in fridge compartment. Taking one out and unscrewing the lid, he drank the entire contents, followed by another.
Jumping down from the car, he walked round, inspecting each of the tyres, fearful they might have been shot out, but they all seemed properly inflated. He crouched underneath to see if any fluids were draining out, but everything looked dry. Then he stood back and stared at the shell of the car. It was not a pretty sight. The front was damaged from where it had struck the tail of the helicopter, part of the bonnet was buckled and one headlight was gone. The roof was dented, as was just about every panel of the bodywork.
Irrationally, he wondered if Hadidy had good insurance.
Anger flared inside him. Anger that his driver had bailed out and fled, leaving him to his fate. But could he blame him?
Then as he stood, staring at the car, he began to shake again, even more violently than before.
Afghanistan.
Trying to dispel those nightmare thoughts. To think clearly.
Who was behind this?
The same people who had followed him to Chalice Well and kicked him in the face there?
He looked around, turning his head steadily, slowly. He felt very scared now. He wanted to phone home, to hear a friendly voice. But maybe telling Imogen about this would not be smart. It would send her into total meltdown, and she would demand he dropped this, immediately. Instead he replied to her text:
Hot! X
But the signal had suddenly become crap. It didn’t go through. He drove off, thinking hard about what he should now do. Contact the police? The British Embassy? But he’d have to tell them pretty close to the truth, and maybe there was some law preventing historical objects being taken out of the country. Besides, he didn’t want to risk hanging around. If he stayed on here, he’d need to make himself very low profile. Better to get out, this afternoon, board a plane. If there wasn’t one going to England, get one to somewhere else, and then fly on. Did the people in the helicopter have other accomplices in Luxor? Would they have contacted them already and put out an alert for him? A watch on the airport?
From the chaotic crowds at the airport last night, he recalled, it wouldn’t be hard to move around it unnoticed. What did they know about him? If they’d had details of his flight out they’d be able to find out his flight back, and watch the gate. Better to fly to a different destination altogether, he decided. Paris? Berlin? Madrid? Anywhere. Somewhere he knew?
He just needed to get out.
The car he would have to worry about later. At this moment he was still angry with Hadidy for leaving him in the back seat of a driverless car. The Egyptian could damn well sort it out.
Sod him.
50
Tuesday, 7 March
To the best of his knowledge, Ross had not been followed. And to his relief it was growing dark as he approached Luxor Airport, shortly before a quarter to six. It would make the damaged car less noticeable to any security guards.
He drove straight into the short-term car park, up a couple of levels and parked the Land Cruiser in a bay, leaving the keys in the ignition. He dusted himself down and wiped his face, then cleaned his sunglasses. To try to disguise himself a little he put his sunglasses back on, followed by his jacket, patting to check the cloth wrapped round the tooth was still snug in his inside pocket, picked up his overnight bag from the back and walked through into the airline ticketing area.
England was two hours behind Egypt; France and Germany one hour. Egypt Air had availability on a direct flight to Charles De Gaulle at 9 p.m. and Lufthansa had one shortly after to Berlin but it had two stopovers. He didn’t want to get a through ticket to London, in case anyone was watching for just that. He would get an onward flight easily enough from either of these destinations.
He bought a ticket to Paris, then made his way through to the departure hall, picked up a departure card and filled it in. His hand was shaking badly. In addition to the trauma, he remembered he’d not eaten anything since breakfast.
If anyone was watching him as he stood in the passport line, they were doing a discreet job. The unsmiling passport officer looked at his passport then studied the card and gave Ross a strange look. ‘You not stay long in Egypt.’
‘Unfortunately. Would love to – it’s still pretty cold back in my country.’
‘You have business in Luxor?’
‘I’m a writer. I came to meet with a writer friend who is working out here – we’re discussing collaborating on a book about the Valley of the Kings. A kind of guide book – for tourism.’
He’d said the magic word. The officer stamped his passport, closed it and handed it back to him with a faintly discernible smile – possibly one of approval.
Once through security he found a bar. Perched on a stool, he ordered a cold lager and a double Scotch, and pointed at a tired-looking sandwich on a shelf, not caring what was in it. He swallowed the whisky in one grateful gulp. The burn as it went down felt good, and he ordered another.
The flight was delayed two hours, which meant they wouldn’t land in Paris until past midnight. He’d have to overnight in an airport hotel and then travel on in the morning. He texted Imogen to tell her he was staying in Luxor.
Soon after the plane took off, he crashed out into a fitful sleep, and woke up with a blinding headache two hours later.
51
Tuesday, 7 March
In the boardroom on the top floor of the KK building, Ainsley Bloor stood icily by a window, staring down at the darkness of the Thames below as his trusted co-directors filed in. He was seething.
Finally, the last one entered, closing the sound-proof door behind him, and Bloor joined the six men at the table.
As was usual for the late-night, secretive board meetings of Kerr Kluge, no assistant had been invited into the room to take minutes. And no recordings would be made.
‘Gentlemen, we have a monumental screw-up,’ Bloor said. ‘And that doesn’t include the two and a half million in bribes we’ve had to pay to keep the Egyptian police and the aviation authorities quiet.’ He looked at the Chief Operating Officer, Julius Helmsley. ‘Money you’re going to have to lose, Julius – we don’t want any awkward questions from one of our shareholders
at the next AGM.’
‘It’s taken care of, Ainsley,’ he answered. Tall and gaunt with bad posture, floppy, thinning fair hair and a long face, the Chief Operating Officer wore absurdly fashionable glasses that would have looked more appropriate on an art-college student than a fifty-five-year-old bean counter in a grey suit. The accountant was well used to hiding large chunks of cash expenditure. One of the company’s largest cost centres included bribes to the leaders of impoverished third-world nations.
‘It had better be,’ Bloor said, coldly. ‘OK, a couple of you already know what’s happened, but for the benefit of the rest of you, we’ve been outsmarted again, and in a very big way. It seems our security team couldn’t organize the proverbial piss-up in a brewery. Firstly, they follow Ross Hunter to Chalice Well and they come away with fuck all. Now Hunter is on his way back to England from Luxor with, I’m presuming, what he went to get.’
‘Do we know what that is?’ another of his board asked.
‘No, but we’re going to find out fast. Something that might contain Jesus Christ’s DNA,’ Bloor replied. ‘I don’t know what exactly, apparently that crazy old man, Dr Cook, wouldn’t say, however hard he was pressed. If those idiots had been more patient they might have got it out of him. All Cook would say, before he died on us, was that it was something significant relating to Christ Himself. And that no one, who wasn’t destined to, would ever find it.’
‘So somehow this journalist knew where it was?’ said their Head of Research and Development, Alan Gittings. ‘Do we know for sure he actually found anything?’
Bloor nodded at his most trusted lieutenant, Ron Mason, a sturdy, tough, no-nonsense Australian.
‘What the observer in the helicopter saw,’ Mason said, ‘was an old woman come out of the cave with a package, which she handed to Hunter.’
‘What kind of a package?’ Gittings asked.
