Abandoning the useless single fin, he staggered up the dock barefoot and in his drenched wetsuit. Fuck. This had to be just about the worst night of his life. The whole idea of being in the exhibit was a mistake. What was he thinking? “Fuck the exhibit,” he said out loud. “Fuck Egypt.” He was getting out of this place on the first flight in the morning.
“Is everything all right?” a male voice called out to him. He glanced up to see a man with a cigar lounging in a fishing chair on the stern deck of his boat. The fragrance of the smoke told him the cigar was an expensive one.
“Oh, it’s you, the Hollywood guy. Yeah, I’m okay. Been better though.”
“A night dive, eh? Where’s the rest of your gear?”
“Oh, long story.” George ran his hand over his dripping hair.
“You look like you could use a drink.”
George glanced over his shoulder but saw no sign of pursuit. Christ, he was exhausted and trembling. The last thing he felt like doing was running the length of the dock. “Are you offering?”
“If you drink Johnny Walker, I am.”
“Sure, but I should get out of this wetsuit. Maybe we could go inside?” He stepped onto the stern deck, and with the speed fueled by fear, he peeled off the dripping neoprene and let it fall to his ankles. As he slid his feet out of the crumpled suit, he finally heard the ignition of an outboard motor in the distance. Shit, that had to be them. But Bernard was already standing by the sliding-glass doors, and George bounded up after him.
“Just a minute. I’ll get you a towel. Don’t want any footprints, you know.”
George waited patiently, shivering slightly in his bathing trunks, until Bernard returned and handed him a beach towel. He draped it around his shoulders and it warmed him immediately. Glancing nervously over his shoulder, he rubbed himself until he was passably dry, then slipped into the salon where Bernard was already pouring him a double.
Once inside and out of sight of anyone passing on the dock, he was able to relax. He draped the towel over one shoulder like a toga and perused the interior of the yacht. Impressive. No doubt about it.
“My wife’s sleeping, so we should keep our voices down. We don’t want her to come up and think we’re partying.” He set down the bottle and George could see it was Johnny Walker, Blue Label. Jesus. The guy drank only the best. Even George’s father saved the Blue Label for Christmas and funerals. He pulled out one of the chairs and sat down.
“Here, warm up with this. I think you’ll find it a slow, intense, multilayered experience. At least that’s what their ads say.” Bernard handed over the glass and, pulling the towel tighter around him, George took the first mouthful.
Wow. An explosion of flavor rose to his palate, a mix of aromas both sweet and smoky. He swallowed, feeling the heat run down his throat to his chest, then detected the satisfying aftertaste of smoke and pepper and a final touch of spice.
He set the glass on his knee and nodded. “That’s the best whiskey I’ve ever tasted. I’m guessing you didn’t buy it here.”
“Naw, of course not. I picked up a few bottles in Sharm el-Sheikh. Wouldn’t miss it. Goes great with a fine cigar too.” He took a sip from his own glass and sucked it through his teeth. “What the hell are you doing diving in the dark? I did a little night diving in my time, but it wasn’t worth the trouble. You can’t spear fish in the dark. Or are you such an art lover you decided to check out the exhibit by flashlight?”
George took another drink and half closed his eyes as he followed the developing tastes. He liked this man. Bernard Allen was his kind of people, men who knew what was good and what was crap. Someone who would understand what it was like to deal with imbeciles. Still, he didn’t intend to admit what had happened and sound like a fool.
He sized up the yacht again. Wow. The guy must have a bundle. A pity he was on his way out of the country. Bernard Allen was someone to cultivate. But maybe he could make a connection after all. A sort of trade-off. The one thing he had at that moment was information, knowledge that could pay off big. And maybe he could still enjoy the profit in a roundabout way. It never hurt to have a Hollywood big shot owe you something.
“I was just checking things out, up close and personal, and I’m telling you, the exhibit is shit. Just a phony ‘politically correct’ collection of a bunch of self-indulgent artistes.” He said the last word with derision. “But there’s something else down there you might want to know about. Something I couldn’t get to, but you could.”
“You don’t say.” Bernard reached for the Johnny Walker bottle.
George held out his glass for a top-up and granted himself another sip before continuing. “Not very many people know it, but I think our friends, Joanna and Charlie, discovered something down there. It has to have been in the drop-off where Site 13 was supposed to be. At least that’s where Charlie came up from. I took a look at the spot later but didn’t have a chance to go down to the bottom, and I’m sorry now I didn’t. I think there’s sunken treasure down there.”
“Sunken treasure, eh?” Bernard sounded skeptical. “You mean like a chest of doubloons?” He took another sip of his whisky and chuckled.
“I don’t know what it is, but it could be a shipwreck. Last week, I was measuring out the crappy little slope the committee assigned me and Charlie came up out of the hole. He was doing a decompression stop, so that showed me he’d been down deep. Anyhow, he was carrying a plate or something, and it looked like it was gold.”
“Gold, eh? Here in the Red Sea, this close to a tourist town? Sounds unlikely.”
“I can’t be sure, of course. But Charlie tried to cover it up, and why would he do that? He said it was part of Joanna’s piece, but she’s making a fountain, for chrissake, so the plate thing couldn’t be for that. No, I’m sure it was from the ocean floor somewhere under Site 13. And if there’s one gold plate, there’s bound to be more.”
Bernard leaned back and crossed his legs, as if listening to someone narrate a tale. “If you think there’s treasure, why don’t you go after it yourself? Why are you telling me?”
“Well, I did try to take a look, but I’m not that good a diver, and it seemed pretty deep. It’s not something I want to do alone. Then later I got a little sidetracked by a personal disagreement, and now I’m, let’s say, a little too short on time to dive for treasure. You’re welcome to check it out yourself. If you find anything, you can let me know and we can talk about how you’re gonna thank me.”
“Sure thing. Under Site 13, eh?” Bernard held out the bottle again, offering a third shot.
Reluctantly, George withdrew his glass. “I’d love to, but I just had a very tough dive and I’m getting a headache. It’s about time for me to head back. I’ve got a flight to catch tomorrow morning.” He stood up and unwound the bath towel from his shoulders, draping it over the back of his chair.
“Well then, sorry to see you go.” Bernard stood up and drained his glass. They shook hands and George headed toward the sliding doors. He was a little unsteady going down the narrow stairs to the stern deck but made it without stumbling. Draping his sodden wetsuit over his arm, he managed to get over the gangplank to the dock, but when he started the long walk toward the parking area, he began to stagger.
He glanced back once toward the yacht where Bernard stood reigniting his cigar. Exhausted and befuddled as he was, he sensed Bernard’s contempt boring into his back.
Son of a bitch. Wasn’t anyone going to cut him a break?
*
The white dinghy floated ghostlike on the black water, still attached to the exhibit mooring, and they reached it after a few minutes of weary swimming. Without equipment on her back, Joanna clambered first over the side and then reached down to take hold of Charlie’s tank. With her supporting its weight, he hauled himself inside the boat.
Too tired to talk, they motored to the end of the dock and climbed up the ladder. The row of yachts still looked the same, lined up in their indifferent luxury. Joanna nearly tripp
ed over the dark bundle right at the edge of the dock and then realized it was her diving vest and tank. George had made it to land and had fled. She was glad he hadn’t drowned after all. Professional jealousy would be such a stupid reason to die. With a grunt, she hefted the empty tank onto her back again and trudged beside Charlie along the dock.
“I wonder where he’s gone,” Charlie said idly.
“He almost drowned, and he knows he’s going to be charged with smashing one of the artworks. He’s probably headed back to his room, shaking with fear. Then I’m guessing he’ll make a discreet and sudden departure without talking to anyone. Maybe his father can pay for the damage he caused.”
“Mmm. I almost feel bad for him that we have to report it tomorrow. Almost.”
“Yeah, but think of Khadija. She’s got a broken statue now. All George is going to suffer is a little humiliation, which he deserves.”
When they passed the Hina, the light was on in the salon, but Joanna forced herself to glance away and focus on Charlie. Kaia was a million miles away from what they’d just experienced, ensconced in her salon, learning her lines for a Christian movie. Joanna snorted softly with contempt and plodded on toward the car.
Chapter Sixteen
The headquarters of the Committee for the International Egyptian Underwater Exhibit of Ecological Art was located in one of the newer buildings at the center of the village of El Gouna. The village itself was an unassuming, not to say sad, little commercial center of souvenir shops, restaurants, and a feeble reconstruction of the traditional Arab souk. It seemed to exist solely for the tourists in the surrounding hotels when they got tired of the beaches and swimming pools. But its designers had vastly overestimated the ability of a fake Egyptian village to lure tourists away from their lounges and hotel bars. It was only eleven in the morning, to be sure, but the restaurants were completely empty and so were most of the shops.
By comparison, the underwater city, though populated with figures in concrete, seemed busy and alive. Joanna wondered, after the exhibit was open, whether the souvenir shops would sell tiny miniatures of the underwater sculptures. She smiled to herself, realizing it was almost certain.
They climbed the interior staircase to the second floor where Rashid Gamal had his office. He obviously wasn’t important enough to warrant a secretary, but when Charlie knocked on his closed door, Gamal called out something in Arabic, which they took to mean “Come in.”
Gamal stood up from his desk as they entered. “Good morning, Dr. Boleyn, Dr. Hernie. To what do I owe this pleasure?” He motioned for them to take seats in front of him.
“What a compliment, that you remembered both our names,” Joanna said, as they both sat down.
“You may take it as a compliment if you wish, but in fact we know all the artists’ names and the sketches of your works. The project is far too important for us not to. But please tell me, what has taken you away from your workshop and brought you to my dreary little office?”
“Actually, several things, Dr. Gamal,” Joanna said.
He smiled, looking even more like Omar Sharif. “Ah, now it is you who are making the compliments. It is only Mister Gamal.”
“Mr. Gamal, then. We want to keep you up to date on what has been happening at the site, though it appears that you also know some things that we don’t.”
Gamal’s eyebrows rose in a sort of facial question mark, though he didn’t reply.
Charlie added, “I believe you recall the three tablets I brought to you recently.”
“Yes, of course. A fortuitous find, for which the Egyptian government is very grateful.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is. Anyhow, since the tablets seem so valuable, we wondered at the lack of announcement from the committee about their discovery. They are, as you must be aware by now, in Akkadian cuneiform and almost certainly thousands of years old.”
Gamal’s handsome eyebrows had jumped again, seemingly of their own volition. The man would be a terrible poker player. “And how is it that you know what language they are in, Mr. Hernie?”
“I didn’t know. But while Joanna was injured and my own work was finished, I took the liberty of photographing all three tablets and sending the shots to my colleagues in London. They informed us that the language is Akkadian and they have undertaken a transliteration.”
“I wish you had let me know of this, Dr. Hernie. The artifacts are, of course, the property of the Egyptian people.”
“There was never any doubt about that, Mr. Gamal,” Joanna said cordially. “Which is why we surrendered them immediately. It was out of pure curiosity, a curiosity I am sure you share, that we took steps to have them examined and translated. And having deciphered their content, we returned to the site last night to see what other tablets could be retrieved for similar study. We discovered, as you can imagine, that all of the artifacts had been removed.”
“Yes, we did that as soon as we were able, to guarantee their safety.”
“Very wise, of course. We simply wonder why there has been no announcement of the find.”
“That was a decision made by the committee, not by myself. We have not yet fully explored the terrain and there could easily be other artifacts. Surely you realize that announcing a trove in accessible waters could easily lead to pillage by treasure hunters.”
“You mean by ruthless anthropologists, greedy to get their hands on cuneiform blocks?” Charlie scoffed.
“No.” Gamal replied with exaggerated patience. “It is not the clay tablets that concerned us. You’ll recall that gold objects were also among the tablets. With the exhibit opening in just two weeks, attracting—we hope—hundreds of divers, any announcement would be an invitation to visit the treasure site. It would both open the wreck site to theft and detract from the exhibit itself. Not to mention be quite dangerous.”
Gamal scratched the edge of his mustache for a moment, as if finally grasping what Joanna had admitted a few moments before. “So you returned to the site yourself. At night. Why was that?”
Joanna was becoming slightly annoyed. “We told you, since the committee didn’t seem in any hurry to look at the tablets, we wanted to retrieve them ourselves. And we went at night for precisely the reason you stated, to avoid drawing attention to the site. We certainly would have turned everything over to you. We’ve already done that.”
“Quite so. You have. Is this why you have asked to meet with me today? To ask what became of the artifacts?”
“Actually, no.” Joanna said. “It was to inform you that we discovered vandalism at the exhibit.”
“Vandalism?” Gamal leaned forward on his elbows. “What sort? How do you know?”
“Last night, when we dove into the city, we came upon someone smashing a head from one of the statues in the Palestinian work, the one by Khadija Saïd. The diver fled when we came close, and when he turned off his torch, we lost him temporarily. We went down to the site of the tablets but came up as soon as we found nothing to retrieve. It was at that time that we found the vandal. In fleeing us, he had hidden in one of the buildings, the railroad station, in fact. He became trapped, and when we found him, he was running out of air.”
“Good grief. What did you do?”
“What any diver would. We gave him air, of course. That’s when we identified him as George Guillaume. We freed him, and I let him have my tank. For all I know, his own scuba equipment is still inside the station. He reached the surface before we did and swam to the dock, where he left my vest and tank. In any case, we thought the committee might want to be apprised of that.”
“Have you informed Miss Saïd?”
“No, she wasn’t at the hostel and we didn’t pass her on our way here.”
Gamal was already scribbling the information on a notepad. “While the coincidence, of all three of you being in the city at the same time at night, is extraordinary, I do thank you for that information. We’ll contact Miss Saïd immediately and take the appropriate action. Now, please tell me again about t
hese supposed transliterations you have obtained.”
Charlie relaxed in his chair and crossed his legs, most likely to remove any suggestion of being confrontational. Charlie was good at that. “They are not ‘supposed’ at all. Two of our colleagues in the relevant fields did the transliterations, and they will be published shortly in the museum bulletin. It’s very likely that they’ll also appear in one or more scientific journals. But of course, in the meantime, you have all the tablets and you’re free to translate them yourself, the old ones and all the others we haven’t seen. Who knows, you might discover texts far more thrilling than ours.”
“And what have you discovered, if I might ask?”
Joanna and Charlie exchanged glances. “You might, indeed. It was the story of Lot’s escape from Gomorrah,” she said neutrally.
“Ah, the one righteous man.” Gamal considered for a moment and then winced. “Hmm. That might present a problem of interpretation, since our medina might be taken as a reference to one of those sinful cities. That would be unfortunate.”
Charlie scratched his beard. “Only if you consider Sodom and Gomorrah to actually be sinful. Our tablets suggest something quite different. The writers talk about prosperous market towns filled with traveling merchants, multiple religions and languages. Pretty harmonious places, I mean as far as Bronze Age cities go.”
“In fact, there is a very nice parallel with our own underwater scene,” Joanna said. “It’s a city on a plain, filled with international art and intended to attract people from all over the world. There’s even a fountain just like the one mentioned in the tablet. One might go so far as to call the exhibit an ‘underwater Gomorrah of art.’”
Gamal shook his head vehemently. “Good grief, no! I don’t think we should even consider associating the exhibit with Sodom and Gomorrah, no matter what your tablets say. The religious community would be up in arms.”
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