by Will Adams
“We wait,” said Nessim.
“For what?”
“Mr. al-Assyuti was in Sharm when you called. He’ll be here any minute.”
“This has nothing to do with the girl,” said Knox. “Let her go.”
“We wait for Mr. al-Assyuti,” said Nessim.
“Please,” begged Knox. “I let you and your men go in Tanta. You owe me. Let her go.”
But Nessim only shook his head. Knox closed his eyes, weary, frightened and dismayed. It galled him that al-Assyuti, of all men, would be the one to benefit. He would have no trouble hauling up the sarcophagus and lid from the mud and murk of the canal bed, and once he did, he would pry out the gemstones and melt down the gold, destroying forever one of the great finds of modern archaeology. And who could say that he wouldn’t get his hands on the rest of the Siwa treasure, too—him or Yusuf Abbas or the two of them together? The thought of such corrupt men turning so glorious a find to their own benefit made him feel physically ill. His whole life, Knox had searched for such objects—not for their intrinsic value but for the knowledge they brought with them. And yet, first by cutting the Gordian Knot, then by reversing the container truck into the canal, he had willfully played a part, just to give himself and Gaille a chance of life where there had seemed no chance at all. And it hadn’t even worked. Then he looked sideways at her sitting beside him, and he felt a certain peace, because he knew absolutely that if he had it to do over again, even knowing what he knew now, he wouldn’t hesitate. He took her hand again, interlaced fingers, and gave her a little squeeze of reassurance. She smiled and reciprocated, caressing his skin with her thumb.
Fifteen minutes passed before headlights sprang through the window. Knox’s heart accelerated. He glanced again at Gaille, who was looking as frightened as he felt. Footsteps grew loud; then Nessim opened the door, and Hassan al-Assyuti walked through, hands clasped behind his back. He looked bigger than Knox remembered. His eye and jaw were both puffy, and he grimaced as he moved, as though still feeling the beating he had taken.
“Let the girl go,” said Knox at once. “She knows nothing about this.”
Hassan smiled wolfishly, showing a flash of gold where previously there had only been white. “You’re a hard man to find, Mr. Knox. My men have been scouring all Egypt.”
“We had a deal,” said Knox. “I said I’d come to see you. You said you’d get a shipment out for me. I’m here. She’s the shipment. Keep your word. Get her out.”
“You don’t think you’ve breached the terms of that particular contract? You don’t think three vehicles filled with armed and hostile men allows me to—”
“Please,” said Knox. “I’m begging you. Do what you want with me, but let the girl go.”
“What? So she can walk straight out of here and sell her story to the press?”
“She won’t do that. Tell him, Gaille. Give him your word.”
“Fuck him,” said Gaille through chattering teeth. “I’m staying with you.”
Hassan barked out a laugh of mixed amusement and admiration. “You prefer looks to intelligence in your women, I see.”
“You won’t get away with this.”
“Get away with what?” shrugged Hassan. “All I’ve done so far is rescue you from a situation of extreme jeopardy. You should be thanking me. As for what I’m going to do next . . .”
“Yes?” asked Knox.
“You humiliated me in Sharm, Mr. Knox,” said Hassan, the tendons taut in his neck. “People have been laughing at me. At me, Mr. Knox. At me. I’m sure you appreciate that I can’t allow such things to go… unremedied.” He came a step closer, leaning down so that the tip of his nose was almost touching Knox’s, his breath sour in Knox’s nostrils. “It’s a simple matter of respect.”
“Respect!” snorted Knox. “You were raping a girl.”
Hassan’s eyes narrowed. He stood up once more, his fists clenched. Knox braced himself for a punch, but Hassan restrained himself and even managed a tight smile. “I’d almost given up hope of finding you,” he said. “But then, this afternoon, you called out of the blue. I thought it was a joke at first. I thought you were taunting me. You had to be aware, after all, of what I’d do to you. But then an extraordinary news story began to break. A man recovering in Siwa Hospital began babbling about discovering the tomb of Alexander the Great, and golden coffins and a conspiracy of Greeks and how a young man called Knox had come to his rescue. And suddenly your telephone call began to make some sense. What else could your shipment be but these renegade Greeks, this plundered treasure?”
“How happy you must have been,” said Knox bitterly, “having me deliver it straight to your door! Don’t you have enough gold?”
“A man can never have enough gold, Mr. Knox,” retorted Hassan. “And yet, you’re right, in a way. Money has never been a problem for me. There are other things, however, that I’ve found more difficult to acquire. Do you see where I’m going, Mr. Knox? ”
“My guess would be to prison for life.”
Hassan laughed. “You couldn’t be more wrong. This isn’t some crude heist; it’s an official operation. Semiofficial, at least. Those men out there are paratroops—Egypt’s finest, old comrades of Nessim’s. After all, you don’t really imagine I have thirty armed marksmen to call on at such short notice, do you? And why do you think your convoy wasn’t challenged on your approach to Suez? And why do you think no one shot at your container, except when your driver tried to get away?”
“I don’t understand,” protested Gaille. “What’s he talking about?”
“I’m talking about a way for you two to walk out of here alive,” he told her. “I’m talking about a way for everybody to win.”
“Go on,” said Knox.
“The ambitions of youth aren’t the same as the ambitions of maturity, Mr. Knox, as you’ve probably realized for yourself. When I was a young man, I craved only money, because money is like air—if you don’t have it, nothing else matters. But once you have it . . .” he made a dismissive gesture.
“So what do you want?”
“Legitimacy. Respectability. A place in the hearts of my people. An opportunity to serve.”
“An opportunity to serve!” snorted Knox. “I don’t believe this! You’re going into politics?”
Hassan allowed himself a smile. “Our nation is led by an aging generation,” he said. “A generation out of touch with its people. Egypt is crying out for new leadership, for people with fresh ideas and energy, for people who understand the new ways. I intend to be one of those people. Yet politics in Egypt is not an easy world to penetrate, particularly for a man with my … background. Egypt is riddled with nepotism, as you know. Too many sons are already waiting in line, and I’m sure you realize that patience isn’t my strongest point.”
“So that’s it,” muttered Knox. “You’re going to make yourself the hero of the hour. The savior of Egypt’s heritage.”
“And you’re going to help me, Mr. Knox,” nodded Hassan. “You’re going to tell the world that the reason you contacted me earlier today was because when you realized that these great Egyptian treasures were in danger, you knew I was the person to go to, because I always put my country and my people ahead of anything else; and you’ve been proved right by events, because I’ve done exactly that.”
“And if I don’t?”
Hassan reached out to stroke Gaille’s cheek. “It’s already a bloodbath outside, Mr. Knox. Do you really believe that two more corpses would make any difference?”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Is that a challenge, Mr. Knox?”
Knox stared at him, trying to read behind his eyes, but the man was made of stone; he gave nothing away. He glanced instead at Gaille, who was bracing herself for the worst, yet prepared to suffer it on his account; and he knew then that he had no choice. “Fine,” he said. “You have a deal.”
“Good,” said Hassan. He nodded at Nessim, still standing stolidly by the door. “You have my
head of security to thank, you know. This was his idea. I was angry with you, Mr. Knox—you have no idea how angry. After your call came, I wanted you shot. But Nessim persuaded me this was the wiser course.” He leaned in close once more, as if to confide a secret. “I’m a bad enemy to make, Mr. Knox. You’d do well to remember that.”
“I will,” Knox assured him. “Believe me.”
Hassan looked back at him, amused by his defiance, and the two men locked gazes long enough for both to realize that it wasn’t over between them just yet, that unfinished business remained. But it could wait. It would wait. They each had too much to lose.
Knox stood, helped Gaille to her feet, and put his arm around her. They walked together to the door, held open for them by Nessim. Knox nodded slightly at him as they passed, and Nessim nodded back—an acknowledgment of debts settled, perhaps even of mutual respect. Then he and Gaille passed through the door and into a whole new life.
Epilogue
SO THIS IS WHAT FAME FEELS LIKE, thought Knox, roasting beneath the arc lights as he gazed out over the bank of microphones to the squatted rows of photographers and the TV crews and the press journalists perching forward on their chairs, taking notes with one hand while straining to be noticed with the other, eager to pose their questions, if only to show their bosses they were doing their jobs, because they must realize by now that they wouldn’t get any answers worth a damn.
“I’m sorry,” declared Yusuf Abbas for the umpteenth time. “It’s far too early to know exactly what we’ve found. Archaeology doesn’t work that way. We need time to secure and examine the sites. We need time to retrieve and study what we find. In a year or two, perhaps, we’ll know a little more. Now, just three more questions, I think. Who wants to—”
“Daniel!” shouted out a young redheaded woman. “Daniel! Over here!” Knox turned toward her and was momentarily dazzled by the flash of a camera bulb. “How can you be sure it was Alexander?” she yelled.
“Is it true there’s more gold?” called out a Japanese journalist.
“Gaille! Gaille!” cried a gray-haired man. “Did you think you were going to die?”
“Please,” begged Yusuf, holding up both hands, loving every moment. “One at a time.”
Knox scratched his cheek, itching with fatigue and several days’ stubble. How bizarre this all was. To think that at this very moment, people around the world were watching him on TV. A few would almost certainly be old acquaintances. They’d squint at the screen in disbelief, maybe mutter an obscenity beneath their breath, or hoot with laughter and pick up the phone to alert mutual friends. Have you seen the TV? Remember that guy Knox? I swear to God, it’s him!
He glanced across at Gaille. She smiled and raised an eyebrow back at him, as though she understood exactly what was going through his mind. The past twenty-four hours had been bewildering. Their police debriefing in Suez had initially been conducted in a jubilant, self-congratulatory mood: jokes cracked, hands shaken, him and Gaille treated as heroes. Mohammed’s story seemed to have captured the popular imagination. And to make things even sweeter, they had watched Yusuf Abbas on live TV struggling haplessly to explain his relationship with the Dragoumises, and why he had given the MAF permission to excavate in the Delta and conduct a survey in Siwa, and why Elena Koloktronis had visited him in Cairo.
But then, suddenly, the tone had changed. A new investigator, called Umar, had arrived at the police station. His first act had been to have Knox and Gaille locked up in separate cells; then he proceeded to interrogate them unrelentingly. He had scimitar sideburns and sharp eyes, and he seemed absurdly suspicious of their story. He had tried to trick Knox into contradicting himself, and to twist his words against him, and he had shown no interest at all in Nicolas Dragoumis and his men, as though robbery and multiple murder were unimportant to him. He had focused on Knox’s own movements, pressing him particularly on the SCA sites in Alexandria and the Delta, trying to force him to admit that he had broken into them.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Knox had insisted. “I know nothing about those sites.”
“Really,” Umar had said, frowning theatrically. “Then perhaps you can explain how photographs of them were found on a laptop and a digital camera in your Jeep.” Knox’s heart had plummeted. He had forgotten completely about those. To clam up now or ask for a lawyer would be tantamount to admitting he had something to hide. To lie to a man like this would be madness, but so would coming clean. And he had Rick’s reputation to worry about, too. In no way could he allow his friend’s good name to be tarnished as a tomb robber, not after the sacrifice he had made. Umar had smiled with infuriating smugness. “I’m waiting,” he said.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Knox had protested.
“That may be your opinion. In my country, we consider breaking into historic sites a very serious crime—especially for a man already known to have sold antiquities on the black market.”
“That’s bullshit!” Knox had protested furiously. “You know that’s bullshit.”
“Explain the photographs, Mr. Knox.”
Knox had scowled and sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “What photographs?”
Umar had snorted. “Do you know the penalties for antiquities theft? Even for attempted theft, you could serve ten years.”
“This is ridiculous. I’ve just helped save a great treasure for Egypt.”
“Nevertheless,” said Umar, “a wise man would be aware of the seriousness of his position. Are you a wise man, Mr. Knox?”
Knox had narrowed his eyes, sensing subtext in Umar’s words. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that there is one explanation for your presence in these sites that I would gladly accept.”
“And that is?”
“That you were there with the authority of the SCA—specifically, with the knowledge and blessing of the secretary general, Yusuf Abbas.”
Knox had closed his eyes as he finally caught on. “So that’s it,” he laughed. “I say I was working undercover for Yusuf, and suddenly he wasn’t best friends with the Dragoumises anymore; he was investigating them. Tell me: what do you get out of it?”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Umar had replied primly. “But perhaps we should go through your statement one more time. The media are clamoring for the full story, as I’m sure you appreciate. Only this time, why don’t you start by describing the phone call you made to Yusuf Abbas to alert him to your suspicions about the Dragoumises, and the authority he granted you to act covertly on his behalf.”
“Or?”
“Or everyone loses: Yusuf, you, the girl.”
Knox had felt sick. “The girl?”
“Egypt needs someone to punish, Mr. Knox, and the Greeks are all dead. But your friend Gaille was working for them. She was flown to Thessalonike on a private jet just days ago to meet Philip Dragoumis, and she was with Elena Koloktronis in Siwa. Trust me, I can make her look guilty as the devil with far less material than this. Such a sweet young thing, too! Can you imagine what even a month in an Egyptian prison would do to her?”
“I don’t believe this.”
Umar had leaned forward. “And think of this, too. If you agree, you’ll be a hero. I’ve been authorized to tell you that the SCA will welcome you back into the fold with open arms and look favorably upon any future excavation applications you might choose to make.”
For a moment, Knox had felt the urge to hurl the offer back in Umar’s face. Five years ago, younger and more headstrong, he would have done so. But the wilderness was a good teacher. “If I agree,” he said, “it’ll be on one condition.”
“And that is?”
“A new SCA award. The Richard Mitchell Award, presented annually to a promising young archaeologist by the secretary general himself. The first to go posthumously to my friend Rick Hannah.”
Umar had allowed himself a small smile. “You will excuse me one minute?”
Knox had stretched
out his leg as he’d waited for Umar to return; the bullet wound felt pleasantly tight and sore. Nothing but flesh, he had been assured. In a week, it would be only a scar and a memory. Umar had come back in. “Not the Richard Mitchell Award,” he had said. “Just the Mitchell Award. A recognition of the contribution the whole family has made, including your friend Gaille. My contact assures me that any more would be impossible. I believe him.”
Knox had agreed. Frankly, he’d been surprised that Yusuf buckled even that far. It was effectively an acknowledgment that Richard had been innocent of selling antiquities on the black market; and if he was innocent, then who but Yusuf could be guilty? Yusuf had to be really feeling the heat. For a moment, for precisely that reason, Knox had considered rejecting the deal, but it hadn’t been just his own skin at stake. “Fine,” he had said. “But you’ll need the girl’s agreement, too.”
“I already have it,” Umar had told him, patting his pocket. “It seems she didn’t want you in jail any more than you wanted her there.”
“May I see her?”
“Not yet. Once we’ve rewritten your statement, we’ll hold a press conference. You, the girl, and Yusuf will tell the world how you worked together with Hassan to foil those dastardly Greeks. After that, you and she can do as you please.”
“Once we’re irretrievably compromised, you mean.”
Umar had only smiled.
And so here they all were, Yusuf Abbas wrapping up the press conference, thanking the journalists for coming, and insisting they contact him directly, not Knox or Gaille, with any further questions. Then he rested his palms flat on the table, clenched his jaw, braced his hams, and launched himself up out of his chair onto his feet before beaming around the room as if expecting applause. When it didn’t come, he beckoned Gaille and Knox to stand beside him for a few final group photographs, an arm around the shoulders of each, as though they were the best and oldest of friends. The cameras clicked their fill; then the arc lights started going out. Journalists called friends and offices on their cell phones as they filed out in a muted hubbub. The world’s attention moved on, leaving Knox feeling oddly deflated. He had never sought the spotlight, yet there was something undeniably intoxicating about it.
