The Exodus Quest dk-2

by Will Adams

  On the top shelf of the wardrobe, he found a motorcycle helmet. Perfect. He put it on, tightened its chinstrap. The way it reflected his breath sounded strangely like fear. Knox was still absorbed in his laptop. Peterson pushed the door slowly open and crept up quietly behind him.

  II

  'Was this burial chamber truly built for the man we know as Moses?' Stafford asked rhetorically, as Lily filmed. 'I believe it was.'

  Gaille stood quietly outside the burial chamber as he talked, well out of shot and Stafford's eye-line. He had a low tolerance for distraction, a low tolerance for everything.

  'No trace of Akhenaten's body was ever found here,' he continued. 'No trace of any body. Think about that. This wonderful burial chamber, yet no one buried here.'

  Gaille pursed her lips. Traces of human remains had been found here, according to reports, though none had been preserved for analysis. And fragments of a sarcophagus built for Akhenaten had certainly been found, along with numerous shabtis, miniature Akhenaten figurines designed to do the menial work in the afterlife so that Akhenaten's own spirit wouldn't have to. Even should Stafford be right about the Jews coming from Amarna, it was hard to accept Akhenaten as Moses. Egyptian society had been fiercely hierarchical. Pharaohs had been obeyed, even heretic pharaohs. While Akhenaten lived, he'd have remained in charge and he'd have had no reason to leave Amarna. On the other hand, she could easily believe he hadn't been buried in this chamber. It would have been too easy a target for vindictive enemies. So maybe they'd taken his body with them, or moved it to the Valley of the Kings, or maybe even somewhere close by.

  'So what did happen to Akhenaten?' asked Stafford. 'Where did he go? And what about all his followers, his fellow Atenists? Come with me on a marvellous journey, as I reveal for the first time ever the true story of Moses and the birth of the Jewish nation. Join me on my extraordinary Exodus quest.'

  A few seconds' silence as Lily panned around the burial chamber, filming the faded gypsum murals. Then she lowered the camera, passed Stafford the headphones, enabling him to review the footage. 'I preferred the first take,' he grunted.

  'I told you it was fine.'

  'Then let's go back up. Scout our sunset shot.'

  'Sunset shot?' asked Gaille.

  'From the hill opposite,' nodded Stafford. 'We'll pan around from the tomb mouth to the Royal Wadi. It'll finish this segment off nicely. We start with the sun rising over Amarna, you see.'

  'And end with the sun setting on it?'

  'Exactly,' nodded Stafford, leading the way up the steps. 'The symbolism, you see.'

  'Quite.'

  He smiled sourly at her. 'You academics,' he said. 'You're all the same. You'd sell your soul for what I have.' They emerged back out into daylight. He strode across the road to the far side of the wadi without a backward glance, surveyed it for a place to climb.

  'Hey! You! Stop!'

  Gaille looked around. Captain Khaled Osman was striding belligerently towards Stafford, anger and something like fear in his expression. Stafford decided to ignore him, began to climb, but Khaled grabbed his leg and violently tugged him back. Stafford fell tumbling onto rock, scraping his palms. He stood up, turned incredulously to Gaille. 'Did you see that?' he demanded. 'He put his hands on me.'

  'You finish here,' said Khaled. 'Leave.'

  'Leave? I'll leave when I'm good and ready.'

  'Leave now.'

  'You can't do this. We have permission.' He turned to Lily, emerging from the tomb. 'Show him our paperwork.'

  Lily glanced at Gaille for some clue of what was going on, but Gaille only shrugged in bewilderment. Lily opened her folder, pulled out several paper-clipped sheets of paper. 'There!' said Stafford, snatching them from her, thrusting them in Khaled's face. 'See?'

  Khaled slapped Stafford's hand away. The pages fluttered to the ground like a wounded bird. 'Leave,' he said.

  'I don't believe this,' muttered Stafford. 'I don't fucking believe this.'

  Lily picked up the pages, flipped through for the authorization to film at the Royal Tomb, and found a wide and deferential smile as she pulled the single sheet out. 'We really do have permission, you know,' she said, offering it back to him.

  Khaled's complexion darkened. He took the page from her, tore it into confetti that he flung disdainfully into the air. 'Leave,' he said, putting his hand meaningfully upon his holster. 'All of you. Now.'

  Gaille's heart was thumping wildly. 'Let's do as he says,' she murmured, taking Stafford's arm. He scowled but let himself be led back to the Discovery, his bravado punctured. Gaille belted herself in, drove back down the Royal Wadi road and then across Amarna to the car ferry, Khaled and his truck looming like perdition in her rear-view mirror.

  III

  Knox felt a mild but distinctly illicit thrill as he typed in the web address of Gaille's Digging Diary. He made the occasional visit, curious to know what she was up to. He found it strangely comforting. And this morning, with everything he'd been through, he hankered for that comfort more than usual.

  A new thumbnail photograph had been uploaded. Gaille standing outside her room with two of Fatima's Egyptian staff, smiling happily in the sunshine, their friendship and good spirits obvious. He clicked on it; it began to download. He pulled up a second browser while he was waiting, reopened her email.

  I miss you too.

  That 'too' intrigued him. He'd clearly said it first. It was true enough, of course. It was just that he was surprised he'd said it. Ever since they'd become partners, he'd been scrupulous about not letting his personal feelings affect their professional relationship. Gaille's father had been his mentor after all. His death had left Knox in a strange position. He felt a certain responsibility to her, almost as though he was in loco parentis.

  The way her hair tumbled when she turned her head. The brush of her fingertips on his forearm as she steered him across the street. There was nothing in loco parentis about that.

  The photograph finally came up. He was staring at it when he saw a shadowy reflection in the screen, a man in a motorcycle helmet creeping up behind him. He whirled around, but too late. The man grabbed him like a straitjacket, pinioning his arms down by his side. He lashed out with his heels and elbows and the back of his head, but to no effect. The man was too strong for him. He dragged Knox out through the open glass doors onto the concrete balcony, then lifted him bodily and hurled him over the rail and out screaming into space.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I

  Knox threw out his hand as he was flung from Augustin's balcony, instinctively grabbed his assailant's wrist, clung on for dear life, breaking his outward trajectory, falling downwards instead, swinging like a wrecking-ball on the man's arm, crashing numbingly hard into the concrete base of the balcony. The impact knocked the wind out of him, strength from his muscles. He lost grip and tumbled down a storey to land flush on the metal railing of the balcony beneath, his left knee buckling beneath him as he fell outwards again, scrabbling desperately for something to cling to, grabbing a cast-iron stanchion as he whirled past, skin flaying from his palm on the speckled rust, until his wrist crashed into the concrete base and ripped him free once more, yet now swinging inwards far enough to hit the rail beneath and fall onto the balcony itself, the breath once more punched out of his lungs, his whole body bruised and sore, but somehow still alive.

  He hobbled to his feet, leaned against the railing, looked up to see his helmeted attacker with his visor up, a glimpse of a compressed fraction of his face provoking a shudder of memory; but he vanished before Knox could quite grasp it, or fix his features in his mind.

  He looked around the balcony. A steel shutter stood between him and the main body of the apartment. He tried to work his fingers beneath it to prise it up, but without success. He rattled it, pounded on it, trying to attract attention. No one came. He leaned over the railing once more. The car park below was deserted. He was about to call for help when he thought again. Even if he could get someone's attention, th
ey'd surely only summon the police; and he didn't fancy explaining himself to them right now, not while they still held him responsible for Omar's death. Which left him marooned out here while a stranger in a motorcycle helmet plotted ways to kill him.

  II

  No one at the hospital was talking, so Augustin headed over to the SCA instead, arrived to find it buzzing with rumour, disoriented by grief. Omar was evidently one of those people only fully appreciated after they're gone. Mansoor, Omar's deputy, was in his cluttered office. 'Terrible business,' he said, shaking his head, looking grey and harried. 'I can't believe Knox had anything to do with it.'

  'He didn't.'

  'There's a man from the police here who thinks he did.'

  'The police!' mocked Augustin. 'What would they know?'

  Mansoor narrowed his eyes shrewdly. 'Have you heard something?'

  'No.'

  'You can trust me, you know.'

  'I know,' agreed Augustin. He removed a stack of reports from a chair, sat down. 'But how could I tell you anything? I don't even know what happened. They wouldn't say a damned thing at the hospital.'

  'You should talk to this policeman,' suggested Mansoor. 'He'll still be around here somewhere. I promised to go out to Borg el-Arab with him.'

  'Borg el-Arab?' frowned Augustin. 'Is that where they crashed?'

  'Yes.'

  'What the hell were they doing out there?'

  'Visiting some training dig apparently.'

  'A dig? In Borg?'

  Mansoor nodded. 'No one here knows anything about it either. Being administered out of Cairo, apparently.' He went over to his filing cabinet, shifted a boxed aerial-photography kit out of the way to get at a drawer.

  'A remote-controlled aircraft,' grunted Augustin, impressed. 'How the hell did you get the budget for that?'

  'Rudi lent it to me,' said Mansoor. 'Easier than him shipping it back and forth to Germany every season.' He handed Augustin a dog-eared sheet of paper, the writing so faint that Augustin had to take it to the window to read. Mortimer Griffin. The Reverend Ernest Peterson. The Texas Society of Biblical Archaeologists. An address in Borg el-Arab. Nothing else. But surely it had to be the source of Knox's photographs. 'I'd like to go and see this place for myself,' he murmured.

  'Maybe you can,' said Mansoor. 'You've seen how the guys are. My place today is here with them. What if I were to ask this policeman if you could go out there instead of me?'

  'Yes,' nodded Augustin. 'What a good idea.'

  III

  Peterson hurried in from the balcony, aghast that Knox had once again escaped justice. The Devil was working overtime today. The laptop was still open on the kitchen table, reminding Peterson of the urgent need to destroy all Knox's photographs of his site.

  There were two browsers open, one showing a photo of a dark-haired young woman with two Egyptian men in galabayas, the other an email from a certain Gaille Bonnard, perhaps the woman in the photo. He scanned it quickly, assimilated the implication that she had a set of Knox's photographs. He sat down, typed out a reply. Dear Gaille, thanks for these. They're terrific. One more thing. Delete all copies, including the originals. Can't explain now. I'll call later. But please do as I say. Delete everything as soon as possible! Before calling me even. Very, very important. Can't stress it too much.

  All love, Daniel. A makeshift solution, but it would have to do. He sent it on its way then deleted her email from Knox's hotmail account, consigning it and all its attachments into oblivion. He was no computer expert, but he'd heard stories about sodomites and other abominators being trapped by images recovered from their hard disks even after they'd thought them deleted. He couldn't risk anyone recovering these, so he unplugged the laptop from its various connections, tucked it under his arm and hurried out.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I

  Captain Khaled Osman stood on the eastern bank of the Nile to watch the car ferry take the Discovery and its TV crew away.

  'I don't like this, sir,' said Nasser. 'People are getting too close. We need to shut the place up. We can always go back again once things quieten down.'

  Khaled had already come to the same conclusion. With the girl's body having been found, things were too hot. He turned to Nasser. 'You and Faisal have everything you need, right?'

  'Already inside, sir,' confirmed Nasser. 'Just give us two hours, no one will ever know it was there.'

  The car ferry reached the far bank. The Discovery was a dot that headed up the hill towards the main road, disappeared behind trees. 'Very well, then,' he said. 'We'll do it tonight.'

  II

  Knox was still trying to prise open the steel balcony shutters when he heard the apartment block's front door slam closed. He looked down over the rail in time to see his assailant, still wearing Augustin's motorcycle helmet, carrying his laptop over to a blue 4x4 in the parking area, too far away for him to make out its licence plate. The man climbed inside before taking off the helmet, giving Knox no chance to see his face. And then he was gone.

  Knox turned his attention back to the steel shutter. But he couldn't get through, no matter what he tried. It seemed he was stuck out here until whoever lived here came home. And who could predict how they'd react? They'd almost certainly call the police. He leaned out over the railings. The shutter of the balcony beneath was raised and its glass doors were wide open. He called out. There was no reply. He called louder. Still nothing. He paused for thought. Climbing down to it wouldn't be easy, but he was confident he could manage it safely enough, and it was better than waiting here.

  He straddled the railing, turned to face the building, placing his feet between the stanchions. The breeze didn't feel quite so gentle any more, with nothing between him and the tarmac below. He crouched, grabbed a stanchion in each hand, took a deep breath, then lowered himself, legs kicking air above the drop. His stomach and then his chest scraped on the rough concrete. His chin bumped against it, biceps feeling the strain. He tried to adjust his position, give himself a respite, but his grip slipped and he dropped sharply, shuddering to a halt, hanging there holding desperately onto the base of the two stanchions.

  It was at that moment that an overweight woman with silvered hair came out onto the balcony. She saw Knox dangling there, dropped her basket of laundry and began to shriek.

  III

  Gaille could see the colour rising in Stafford's throat, his fists clenching tighter and tighter in his lap. She found herself leaning away from him in the driver's seat, as if he was a landmine about to go off. But when the detonation finally came, it began more quietly than she'd expected.

  'Congratulations,' he said, turning to Lily.

  'I'm sorry?'

  'For ruining my programme. Congratulations.'

  'I don't thinks it's-'

  'What the hell am I supposed to do now? Tell me that.'

  Gaille said: 'It can't be as bad as-'

  'Did I ask your opinion?'

  'No.'

  'Then shut the fuck up.' He turned back to Lily. 'Well? Your suggestions, please.'

  'We'll go on to Assiut,' said Lily. 'I'll make some calls from the hotel. We'll sort it out. We'll come back tomorrow and-'

  'We're filming tomorrow,' yelled Stafford, red-faced with anger. 'And then we're on a fucking plane. I've got obligations, you know. I'm expected in America. You want me to cancel my morning shows because you can't do your job properly?'

  'I got the permissions,' said Lily defensively. 'Everything was in order.'

  'But you didn't arrange it on the ground, did you? First rule of going overseas. Arrange it on the ground.'

  'I asked to come out. You wouldn't pay my airfare.'

  'So it's my fault now, is it? Jesus! I don't believe this!'

  'I didn't mean it like that.'

  'You're supposed to find ways to sort these things out. That's your job. That's your entire fucking job. That's all I employ you to do.'

  'Why not film the sunset here on the west bank?' asked Gaille. 'You'll
still get your sunset.'

  'But not Amarna. Not the Royal Wadi. Unless you're suggesting that I should perpetrate a fraud upon my public. Is that what you're suggesting?'

  'Don't talk to me like that.'

  'Don't talk to me like that?' he mocked. 'Who the hell do you think you are?'

  'I'm the person driving this car,' replied Gaille. 'And unless you want to walk…'

  'This is a disaster,' muttered Stafford. 'A fucking disaster.' He turned on Lily again. 'I can't believe I ever hired you. What was I thinking?'

  'That's enough,' said Gaille.

  'I'm going to warn everyone about you, you know. I'll see to it you never work in television again.'

  'That's it!' Gaille pulled into the side, took the keys from the ignition, got out and walked away. Doors opened behind her, she glanced around to see Lily hurrying after her, wiping her wet eyes with the heel of her hand. 'How do you put up with him?' asked Gaille.