The Exodus Quest dk-2

by Will Adams

  'It's my career.'

  'Is it worth it?'

  'Yes,' said Lily. 'Isn't yours?'

  Gaille sighed. It was true enough. She'd put up with plenty in her time. 'How can I help?' she asked.

  'Can't you call someone? How about Fatima?'

  'She's in hospital.'

  'There must be someone. Please.'

  Gaille's gaze slid past Lily to Stafford, leaning against the Discovery, glaring at them both. This was how bullies worked, she knew. They made life unbearable for everyone around them until they got their own way. It galled her to do anything to help him out of the mess he'd brought upon himself. 'You've still got your permissions to film, yes? I mean, he only ripped up the one for the Royal Tomb, right?'

  'Yes. Why?'

  'There is something we could try, I suppose.'

  'What?'

  'It's a hell of a risk,' said Gaille, already beginning to regret volunteering anything.

  'Please, Gaille. I'm begging you. He can ruin my career. He really can. And he will too, just out of vindictiveness. You've seen how he is.'

  Gaille sighed. 'Okay. The thing is, there are car ferries every few kilometres along the Nile. Every town has its own. There's another a little south of here. I've used it before when this one was down for repairs. The police don't watch that one.'

  'Another ferry?' Lily turned before Gaille could stop her. 'Apparently there's another ferry just south of here,' she told Stafford.

  'And I could care less because…?'

  'You have permission to film the Southern Tombs,' sighed Gaille. 'That's where many of Akhenaten's nobles were buried.'

  'I know what the Southern Tombs are, thank you. I also know I have no need to film them.'

  'The thing is, they're out on their own at the southern end of Amarna.'

  'So?'

  'So if we cross back over the Nile on this other ferry, we should be able to make it there without being spotted. And even if we are stopped, we'll have your authorization to film.'

  'Are you stupid or something? I don't want to film the Southern fucking Tombs. I want to film the Royal fucking Tomb.'

  'Yes,' said Gaille. 'But once we're there, it's theoretically possible to hike across the hills to the Royal Tomb. It's not that far.'

  'Theoretically possible?' sneered Stafford. 'What use is that if none of us knows the way?'

  Gaille hesitated again. She knew she shouldn't let animosity for this man provoke her into rashness. And yet it did. 'I know the way,' she said.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I

  The woman stopped shrieking and ran back inside her apartment. Knox's relief didn't last long, however. She reappeared with a kitchen knife, proceeded to hack viciously at his ankles. He tried to hoist himself back up, but he didn't have the grip. He had no choice but to swing away from her and then back in, letting go and landing on her spilled clothes, stumbling forwards onto his hands. She stabbed at his back, the sharp tip piercing through his shirt. He twisted around, holding up his palms submissively, but it did nothing to placate her. He scrambled to his feet, hobbled through her apartment and out her front door.

  His ankle was too sore for the stairs. He summoned the elevator. Behind him, the woman was telephoning the police, shouting hysterically for them to come at once. Cables clanked and creaked. The woman came to her front door to yell at him some more, call on her neighbours to save her. Doors opened above and below, people leaned over banisters. The lift arrived. Knox got in, jabbed the button for the ground floor. He limped out of the building, ankle throbbing, left knee clicking ominously. Out on the main road, he waved down a bus, not caring where it was headed, nor that it was already packed. A woman wearing a floral headscarf and sunglasses looked quizzically at him as a police car swept by, siren blazing. Knox ducked his eyes, feeling ridiculously conspicuous.

  He got out at the Shallalat Gardens, struggled to the Latin Cemeteries, pushed open the heavy wooden door. An elderly curator was leaning on his broom. Otherwise, the place was deserted. Many of the tombs here had superstructures like shrunken marble temples. Knox found one out of the way, lay down inside with his back to the wall. Then he closed his eyes and cleared his mind, giving his much-abused body some time to rest and heal.

  II

  Mallawi's Museum of Antiquities consisted of three shabby long halls with high ceilings and low lighting. The curator raised her eyebrows when Naguib set the figurine from the dead girl's pouch on the glass top of a display case.

  'May I?' she asked.

  'That's why I brought it here,' said Naguib. He watched her pick it up, turn it in her hands. 'Well?' he asked.

  'What do you want to know?'

  'What is it? How much is it worth?'

  'It's an Amarna-style statuette of Akhenaten in pink limestone. As to what it's worth…' She shook her head regretfully. 'Not very much, I'm afraid.'

  'Not very much?'

  'It's a fake. One of thousands.'

  'But it looks old.'

  'It is old. Many fakes were made sixty or seventy years ago. There was a big market for Amarna antiquities back then. But they're still fakes.'

  'How can you be sure?'

  'Because all the genuine ones were found decades ago.'

  A party of schoolchildren arrived yelling and playing, gleeful to have escaped their classroom prison. Naguib waited until they'd been ushered past by their embarrassed teachers before asking his next question. 'So there are genuine ones?'

  'In museums, yes.'

  'And you can always tell the difference, can you? I mean, just by looking?'

  'No,' she admitted.

  'So it's conceivable that one might have been lost? Buried in the sand, say, or in some undiscovered tomb?'

  'You'd struggle to convince a buyer of that.'

  'I don't have a buyer,' said Naguib tersely. 'What I have is a dead girl who may have been murdered over this. So tell me: how much would a piece like this be worth, if genuine?'

  The curator looked down at the figurine with a touch more respect. 'Hard to say. Genuine Amarna artefacts don't often come up for sale.'

  'Please. Just a rough idea. In US dollars. A hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand?'

  'Oh, more. Much more.'

  'More?' swallowed Naguib.

  'This wouldn't just be a figurine,' said the woman. 'It would be history. Amarna history. People would pay what they must pay. But you'd have to prove it was genuine first.'

  'How would I go about that? Are there tests?'

  'Of course. Chromatography, spectography. But nothing is conclusive. For every expert who'll tell you one thing, another will say the opposite. Your only real hope is to establish provenance.'

  'Provenance?'

  'Find this undiscovered tomb of yours. Then we'll believe you.'

  Naguib grunted. 'And where should I look for that?'

  'In Amarna, certainly. If it was me, I'd check the wadis leading out to the Eastern Desert. A lot of antiquities have been found in them. The storms, you know. They hammer at the cliffs like a million pickaxes. It can still happen that the hidden mouth of an old tomb will simply shear away and its contents wash down into the wadis and then in a great river out into the desert.'

  Naguib went a little numb. 'A flash flood,' he said.

  'Exactly,' smiled the curator. 'A flash flood.'

  III

  Augustin waited in Mansoor's office while his friend went off to persuade the policeman to accept a substitute on his trip out to Borg el-Arab. He killed time running an Internet search on the Texas Society of Biblical Archaeologists. It had its own website, group photographs and brief overviews of excavations in Alexandria and Cephallonia. Its 'About Us' page mentioned its affiliation to the UMC, though there was neither link nor explanation. There was, however, a profile of Griffin, surprisingly impressively qualified for so small an organization.

  A new search on the Reverend Ernest Peterson returned a huge number of hits. The man was clearly a divisive figure, deplored a
nd feared for his hardline religious views, yet also admired for the hospice, hospital, homeless shelter and rehabilitation centre founded and financed by his ministry. He also financed a private Christian college, the University of the Mission of Christ, presumably the same UMC mentioned on the TSBA website, with faculties of Theology, Creation Science, Law, Political Administration and Archaeology.

  Peterson's ministry had its own site. The screen turned dark blue when Augustin clicked the link. A line of white text emerged. 'Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind: it is abomination.' It faded away. A new one took its place. 'The show of their countenance doth witness against them; and they declare their sin as Sodom, they hide it not. Woe unto their soul! For they have rewarded evil unto themselves.' A photo of a church appeared, with columns of links either side. The left-hand column was entitled What Christ said about… with topics such as homosexuality, feminism, adultery, abortion and idolatry beneath, and lists of verses from Deuteronomy, Leviticus, Numbers and other Old Testament books.

  The right-hand column bore titles like The Cancer of Liberalism and The Sin of Sodom. Augustin clicked on The Abominators Agenda. An inset screen appeared, Peterson mouthing silently at the camera. He turned on the volume, had to sit back at the torrent of anger and hate that poured forth. He clicked a different link, all by itself, and entitled 'The Face Of Christ'. Peterson again, but his tone completely different. Emollient. Transcendent. 'You ask how I came to God,' he said. 'Let me tell you how I came to God. I was a wretched sinner. A thief, a drinker, a man of dishonesty and violence, well known to our police, though still but a youth. And I came to God because one day, my lowest day, in His infinite mercy He sent His Son to bring me to Him. A vision of His Son. And I tell you this: no man can look upon the face of Christ and not believe. And that is the mission God gave me for my time upon this earth: to bring the face of Christ to the whole world. Make it your mission too and together we will surely-'

  The door opened behind him. He looked around to see a policeman standing there. 'Doctor Augustin, yes?'

  'Yes.'

  'I'm Detective Inspector Farooq. Your colleague Doctor Mansoor suggested you would be good enough to come to Borg el-Arab with me.'

  'Yes.'

  'Excellent. Are you ready?'

  Augustin nodded. He closed down the browser with a little shudder, got to his feet. 'Let's do it,' he said.

  IV

  Peterson drove back to the excavation site as quickly as prudence would allow, stopping only to hurl Knox's laptop and mobile phone into the reed-fringed waters of Lake Mariut, watching with satisfaction as they splashed and sank.

  Claire came out of the office to greet him. An awkward young woman, all elbows and knees, yet with a certain steeliness too. He'd have done without her if he could, but her medical know-how and fluent Arabic were too useful. 'Are those men okay?' she asked, her arms folded.

  'What men?'

  'Nathan told me about them last night. He was in a terrible state.'

  'They're fine,' Peterson assured her. 'They're in the Lord's hands.'

  'What's that supposed to mean?'

  'We're all in the Lord's hands, Sister Claire. Or perhaps you think differently?'

  'Of course not, Reverend. But I'd still like to-'

  'Later, Sister Claire. Later. Right now, I have urgent business with Brother Griffin. Do you know where he is?'

  'In the cemetery. But I-'

  'Then if you'll excuse me,' he said, striding off.

  Griffin must have heard his car, because he met him halfway to the cemetery. 'What the hell happened last night?' he demanded.

  'In good time,' said Peterson. 'First, have you done everything I told you to do?'

  Griffin nodded. 'You want to see?'

  'Indeed, Brother Griffin.'

  They visited the emptied magazine, then the shaft. To Peterson's surprise, he had a hard time spotting where it had been, even standing right beside it. 'I suppose it will do,' he said. His greatest worry now was that someone might shoot their mouth off. Specifically, Griffin or Claire. He glanced back towards the office. 'I don't want Claire here should the police or the SCA turn up. Take her back to the hotel. Keep her out of sight.'

  'But what will I tell her?'

  'Tell her you need to talk to the hotel people about something, and you need a translator.'

  'But they speak English at the hotel.'

  'Then think of something else,' snapped Peterson. He watched Griffin traipse away, then headed to the cemetery. The authorities were certain to visit sooner or later. His students needed to know what to tell them.

  V

  Captain Khaled Osman felt uncharacteristically anxious as Nasser drove him and his men out along the Royal Wadi road. He didn't like visiting the tomb before dark, but Faisal had insisted he needed some natural light to work by. It should be safe enough, he told himself. No tourists ever arrived this late; Amarna was simply too big to see in less than half a day. And he'd made it quite clear to the locals that they were not to come down here any more.

  They parked behind the generator building. Abdullah walked back a little way along the road to stand sentry just in case, while he, Faisal and Nasser traded their uniforms for old shirts and trousers. It was dirty work, what lay ahead. He'd have let Faisal and Nasser handle it themselves, but he didn't trust them to do good work if they weren't supervised. Besides, he felt the need for one last look.

  He belted his holster back on. He felt naked without his Walther, his pride and joy, an unofficial memento of his army days that he'd taken along with an AK-47 and a box of grenades for fishing with. Decent kit too, not like the Egyptian-made pieces-of-shit his men had to put up with. They crossed the drainage channel, picked their way across boulders and scree.

  'These damned boots!' muttered Faisal, who always got agitated near where they'd found the girl.

  The easiest way to reach the tomb mouth was to walk beyond it, climb the side of the wadi, then cut back across the top to a thin ledge. Faisal led the way. The man was a mountain goat. He reached the mouth, pulled back the sackcloth curtain, invisible from more than a few paces. Dust and grit sprinkled Khaled's hair as he followed him inside. 'How long do you need?' he asked.

  'That depends, sir,' said Faisal.

  'On what?'

  'On how much help I get.'

  Khaled stood there uncertainly. There was something about this place that seemed to incite insubordination. 'One last look,' he said, picking up a torch. 'You never know.'

  'Sure,' said Faisal. 'You never know.'

  Khaled headed along the passage to the burial chamber, still fuming. Who did Faisal think he was? But he put it from his mind in the greater frustration of his failure in this place. Their first visit here, they'd found three statue fragments in the debris, a scarab and a silver amulet. He'd truly believed it was the start of great things. But the finds had dried up, and they'd only fetched a fraction of what he'd hoped because no one believed they were genuine. He hadn't even got enough for them to share anything with his men. It was a paltry return for so much work. Whole sections of ceiling had caved in over the centuries, so that the whole place had been choked with sand and rubble. They couldn't dump it out the mouth, or someone would soon notice, so they'd shifted it from area to area instead, like cleaning house. And all by night, too, their only free time. They'd grown increasingly weary and irritable, yet had never quite been able to give up. That was the cruelty of hope.

  There was a sump in front of the burial chamber, just like in the Royal Tomb. So much sand and rubble had fallen down it over the millennia that at first they hadn't even realized it was there. But it was there all right, the full width of the passage. And deep! Once they'd checked everywhere else, they'd turned their attention to it, removing basket after basket, digging ever deeper, until they'd had to bring in a rope ladder to climb down to the foot, and then tie lengths of rope to their baskets so that one of them could stay at the bottom to fill them while the others hauled th
em to the top for sieving and disposal.

  He climbed down the rope ladder for one last look. But his torch lit nothing save their own detritus: empty water bottles, discarded food wrappings, the stub of a candle, a book of matches. Discipline had been an early casualty of failure. Six metres deep already, and still they hadn't reached the foot! Six metres! He shook his head at the absurdity of the ancients. So much effort! And so pointless too.

  After all, who on earth needed a sump six metres deep?

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I

  Knox had drifted off into a restorative sleep in the Latin Cemeteries. He woke to footsteps slapping the paving slabs outside. For a moment he feared he was bound to be discovered, but the footsteps passed by without changing cadence. He waited for silence, pushed himself grimacing to his feet, his body stiff. He hobbled out of the cemetery, bought a Menatel card from a general store, then found a secluded phone-kiosk from which to call Augustin.

  'Cedric, mon cher ami!' boomed Augustin, the moment he recognized Knox's voice.

  Knox picked up his cue at once, switched smoothly to French. 'There are people with you?'

  'A fine officer of the law. He speaks some English but I think we're okay in French. Hang on a second.' Knox heard some muttering, Augustin's hand clamped over the mouthpiece. Then he came back on. 'We're fine,' he said. 'I just called his mother a fat sow. Not a flicker.'

  Knox laughed. 'What are you doing with the police?'

  'On our way to Borg.' He gave a quick rundown of what he'd learned about the Texas Society of Biblical Archaeology, their links to UMC, their excavations in Cephallonia. Then Knox filled Augustin in on his mystery assailant, and how he'd made off with his laptop.

  'Shit!' exclaimed Augustin. 'I only just bought the damned thing. But you're okay, yes?'