The Exodus Quest dk-2

by Will Adams

  'But why couldn't the mural simply be depicting a similar incident?' she frowned. 'Like with Bartimaeus, for instance?'

  'Bartimaeus?'

  'You must have heard of him. The blind man who pleaded with Jesus to heal him. He used those exact words. It's in the Gospel of Mark, I'm sure. And in Matthew too.'

  It was Augustin's turn to frown. He'd been certain of his reasoning. But then he saw the answer, and it made him laugh. 'I'm not the only one who didn't know that story. Your reverend didn't know it either.'

  'Of course he did,' protested Claire. 'He's a preacher.'

  'Yes,' agreed Augustin. 'But an Old Testament one. Fire and brimstone, not love and forgiveness. Have you ever seen his website? On and on about the word of Christ, but all the references are actually to Deuteronomy, Leviticus and Numbers, never to the New Testament, never to Christ himself.'

  'You can't be serious.'

  'Tell me, then. You must have heard him preaching. Can you ever remember him citing Christ?'

  The digger's scoop scraped something solid at that moment, saving her from having to answer. The driver stopped and reversed away, allowing Augustin to scramble down into the pit. He cleared the hatch with his foot, lifted it up to reveal the steps beneath. His heart swelled with unfamiliar sensations as he nodded up at Claire. 'Thank you,' he said.

  II

  Knox retrieved Peterson's car keys from the wet sand, his wallet and mobile too. There had to be a good chance the police had found the Toyota, were waiting in ambush, but he had little choice other than to chance it, and luck was with him. He turned on the ignition, peered through the misted windscreen into the dark night, unable to see a thing, yet not wanting to risk his lights. A distant shudder of lightning gave him a snapshot of the open sands, enough to drive blind across them until a second shudder gave him another glimpse. When he'd put some distance between himself and the compound, he turned on his lights, reached the line of trees that marked the border between desert and cultivated land, trundled on to a field of sugar cane, pushed on inside, hiding himself behind a wall of stalks, facing outwards should he need to run for it. Then he switched off his lights again, turned on his heaters instead.

  Now what?

  Gaille was in Assiut, some seventy kilometres south. No chance of getting there on the main roads, not with the police out hunting. And not even a 4x4 would make it across the desert in this weather. Not that it mattered anyway. By destroying the laptop and his photos, Peterson had denied him any chance of deciphering Gaille's message.

  It was only then that he remembered the remote-controlled aircraft flying over Borg. He grabbed Peterson's mobile, punched in Augustin's number. It kicked into voicemail. He composed and sent a text message instead, asking his friend to call back the very moment he got it. Then he settled down to wait.

  III

  Farooq arrived at Peterson's Borg el-Arab site to find the security guards gone, the office deserted. But away to his right he could see a mechanical digger with its lights on, a car parked next to it, two navvies chatting with a burly security guard. He drove over. There was a great mound of earth and fill next to a huge pit in the ground, stone steps leading down into an underground chamber, a generator muttering away at the foot.

  'How about that, boss,' said Hosni cheerfully. 'There was something here after all.'

  Farooq gave him a look fit to cook a kebab as he got out and strode across. 'What's going on?' he demanded.

  'Restricted area,' said the guard. 'SCA jurisdiction.'

  'Murder investigation,' snapped back Farooq. 'My jurisdiction.' He pushed his way past the guard, hurried down the steps, anger seething in his heart. The sound of voices led him along a passage to a chamber where Pascal was photographing a mosaic while Mansoor and a young fair-headed woman looked on. 'What the hell is this?' he cried.

  'What does it look like?' retorted Augustin.

  'How dare you come down here without me? This is a crime scene. I'm in charge! Me! I make the decisions. No one does anything without my-'

  'Haven't you caused enough fucking trouble?'

  'Who do you think you're talking to?'

  'You've made a fugitive of my best friend,' snarled Augustin. 'Sort that out or I'll talk to you any fucking way I choose.'

  'Where's Peterson?' demanded Farooq. 'Where's Griffin?' The woman took a step back into the shadows. Farooq whirled on her. 'And who's she?'

  'A colleague,' said Augustin. 'From the SCA.'

  'Is that right?' asked Farooq, turning on Mansoor. 'She's one of yours?'

  'I… ah… that is…'

  'She's one of them, isn't she?' exulted Farooq. He turned to Hosni. 'Arrest her. Take her to the station. I don't care what you have to do to her, just make her talk.'

  'Don't you dare!' shouted Augustin, stepping in front of her. 'Leave her alone.'

  But Farooq drew his gun and levelled it with such intent at Augustin that he moved reluctantly aside. 'Obstructing the police,' he gloated, as Hosni led Claire away. 'Be careful or I'll have you too.'

  IV

  'You look worried,' said Yasmine, greeting Naguib at the door.

  'I'm fine,' he assured her, taking off his soaking jacket, picking up Husniyah, carrying her through to the kitchen. 'That smells good,' he said, nodding at the pot.

  She draped his jacket against the stove, the better to dry. 'Tell me about your day,' she prompted. He didn't reply, just stood there staring blankly at the wall. She touched his arm. 'What is it?' she asked.

  He gave a loud sigh. 'An Englishman called Daniel Knox,' he said. 'The guys across the river are out looking for him. I've been listening in on the radio.'

  'So?'

  'Wasn't he the other person at that press conference? The one at which they announced finding Alexander's tomb, I mean. With the secretary general and the hostage girl?'

  'Yes,' she nodded. 'Daniel Knox. I think you're right.'

  'They're saying he's a killer.'

  'He didn't look like a killer.'

  'No,' agreed Naguib.

  'He looked nice.'

  'So you kept saying,' scowled Naguib. 'But the question is, what's he doing down here?'

  'What are you getting at?'

  'A killer on the run runs away from trouble. This one's running into it. Why? Because of the hostage woman, I'm sure of it. He knows something, and it's leading him here.'

  'Have something to eat. Worry about it tomorrow.'

  'Something's going on in Amarna, my love. I'm not sure what, yet, but it's got to do with those tourist police.'

  'Oh, no,' she said. 'Not this again.' She glanced at Husniyah. 'We've only just got settled here. If you lose your job…'

  'Tell me not to pursue it, I won't pursue it.'

  'You know I won't do that. But what about your colleagues? Won't they back you up?'

  He shook his head. 'I asked Gamal. He told me to drop it. But I can't.'

  Yasmine was silent a moment. Then she took a breath. 'Do what you have to do. Husniyah and I will stick by you always, you know that.'

  His eyes glittered as he pushed himself to his feet. 'Thank you,' he said.

  'Just don't do anything crazy. That's all I ask.'

  He nodded as he pulled on his jacket. 'I'll be back before you know it.'

  FORTY-SIX

  I

  Streams were still pouring down the walls, the rate not slackening at all. If anything, it was getting worse, leaving Lily marooned with Stafford on the small island they'd created, thigh-deep in water that would soon be up to her waist and then her throat unless something changed and went their way. She gave a full-body shudder of dread and cold, teeth chattering wildly. It took all her strength not to let the hysteria take hold. She was so young, and felt the desperate unfairness of her predicament, but also reproach for herself. It was one thing to have one's life ahead, all those infinite possibilities, another to look back and see how little she'd made of what she'd had so far.

  Gaille surfaced, heaving for air after
her latest shift attacking the talatat wall. 'Any luck?' asked Lily.

  'We need to keep working.'

  'It's getting us nowhere,' snapped Stafford. 'Haven't you realized yet?'

  'Then what do you suggest?'

  'We conserve our strength,' said Stafford. 'That's what I'm going to do. Maybe we can swim out of here.'

  'Swim out!' mocked Lily.

  'If this rain keeps coming down like this.'

  'We'll drown before then,' cried Lily. 'We'll all drown.' Her indignation was too much for mere words. She slapped at the sound of his voice. To her surprise, she struck his bare chest. He'd taken off his shirt. 'What are you doing?' she asked.

  'Nothing.'

  She reached a hand across, felt something bob in the water. A water bottle, its cap screwed on. He grabbed it back from her; she heard the sound of wet cloth, felt out the knotted sleeve of his shirt, bulging with Popeye muscles. 'You're making yourself a life-jacket,' she said.

  'We'll all be able to use it.'

  'He's making himself a life-jacket,' Lily told Gaille. 'He's using all the water bottles.'

  'It's a good idea,' said Gaille.

  'They're our water bottles. Not his.'

  'This is for all of us,' said Stafford unconvincingly. 'I just didn't want to get your hopes up before I knew it would work. Anyway, isn't it your turn to dig out this bloody wall of yours?'

  It was. Lily paddled across the shaft, took several deep breaths, dragged herself down to the talatat hole, ears and sinuses aching from the pressure as she scratched furiously at it, a crust of plaster beneath her nails, progress pitifully slow, especially as the rising water was making the task harder and harder and soon it would be impossible even to-

  Her world crashed in suddenly, the water a ferment; something striking her shoulder, spinning her around. She kicked instinctively upwards, half aware already of what must have happened, the planks and sheets and blankets and the rocks pinning them over the shaft mouth had all been brought crashing down by the accumulated weight of water. She surfaced, spluttered, flapped around in the darkness.

  'Gaille!' she cried. 'Charlie!' No reply. She reached out, touched something warm, a torso, a man's shirtless torso: Stafford. She felt his neck, his head, a great indentation in the cranium, soft hot pulp smashed like a dropped fruit. She shrieked and pushed him away. 'Gaille!' she cried, searching the darkness with outstretched fingers, the flotsam of sheets and blankets and a wooden plank. She touched a forearm, felt the shirt, knew it was Gaille, dragged her up the mound and lifted her head from the water, allowing her to cough out liquid from her airways, but giving little other sign of life. All the same, Lily hugged her against herself, weeping copiously with grief, terror and loneliness in the dark.

  II

  'I'm getting you a lawyer,' Augustin yelled out to Claire, hobbling up the steps after her. 'Not a word until he arrives. Understand?' She nodded as she was bundled into the back of the police car, her complexion alarmingly pale. 'I'll be right behind you,' he promised. 'I won't let you out of my sight.' But as the door slammed closed and they began pulling away, he remembered too late that he'd crashed his bike.

  Mansoor came to join him. 'Don't worry. It'll sort itself out.'

  'What's that supposed to mean?' snarled Augustin. 'You know what it's like here once people get caught up in the system.'

  'What are you so worked up about her for? She's one of them, isn't she?'

  'No, she's not. She's one of us. She made her choice and she chose us.'

  'Yes, but-'

  'You have to drive me back to Alexandria. I need to get her out.'

  'I can't,' grunted Mansoor. 'This place comes first. You must see that.'

  'Bullshit. We already have security. Get on the phone, arrange more if you want. Everything else can wait till morning. It's already waited two thousand years, after all.'

  'I'm sorry, my friend.'

  'I gave her my word,' protested Augustin. 'I promised I'd stay with her.'

  'Yes, but-'

  'Please, Mansoor. I've done a lot for Egypt, haven't I?'

  'Of course.'

  'And for you too.' Mansoor's son was studying medicine at a prestigious university in Paris, thanks in large part to strings pulled by Augustin.

  'Yes.'

  'And I've never asked you for anything in return before.'

  'What are you talking about? You're always asking for things. How about my GPS, that remote-controlled aircraft? Where is that, by the way?'

  Augustin waved his quibble aside. 'I'm serious, Mansoor. Claire's not at fault. She's really not. She's behaved well in difficult circumstances. She's risked her whole future to put things right. You saw Farooq. He wants a scapegoat. Someone to interrogate, to bully, to take his anger out on. If he can't find Peterson or Knox, he'll make do with her.'

  Mansoor sighed. 'What can I do?'

  'Tell him that Claire was a whistleblower, the one who originally contacted the SCA with concerns about Peterson and this dig. Tell him she was the reason Omar and Knox came out here in the first place.'

  'He'll never believe me.'

  'He doesn't have to. Just as long as he can't prove anything.'

  Mansoor grimaced unhappily. 'You really think it'll work?'

  'There's only one way to find out.'

  'You'll owe me big for this.'

  'Yes,' acknowledged Augustin. 'I will.'

  III

  Knox was blasting warm air into his shoes when the mobile finally rang. 'It's me,' said Augustin. 'Sorry I missed your call. Troubles of my own. Where are you?'

  'Hermopolis. Long story. Listen, was that you flying that plane over Peterson's site?'

  'You saw that? Yes. And we've found the site, too; we've found everything, the mosaic too.'

  'You fucking beauty.'

  'I haven't had a chance to study it yet, but I can send you a photo. This number, yes?'

  'Please.'

  'Any news of Gaille?'

  'Not yet.'

  'You'll find her,' said Augustin. 'I know you will.' He paused, searching for the right thing to say. 'I don't believe in much, but I believe in you two.'

  'Thanks, mate,' said Knox, unexpectedly touched.

  The photograph came through shortly after, but the mobile's screen was too small for him to make it all out, so he turned on the Toyota's interior light, fetched a pen and notepad from the box of supplies in the back, sketched out the figure inside the seven-pointed star, then added the clusters of Greek letters. But hard though he stared at it, it made no sense. He punched the dashboard in frustration. He'd imagined that everything would fall into place if only he could find the mosaic. He'd been wrong.

  The notepad was too small to make it easy on his eyes. He went back to the box for some sticky-tape and a cheap pair of scissors, then drew the figure and each of the seven clusters of letters on separate sheets and stuck them to the Toyota's windscreen in the rough pattern of the seven-pointed star. Such heptagrams had been favoured symbols of the alchemists, who'd believed it had taken seven stages to convert the leaden soul into the golden sun. He dredged up what little else he knew about them. They'd been a talisman against evil, a symbol of God, of the divine form. The divine form. Wasn't that what Augustin had called hermaphrodites? When everything came from one thing, that one thing must by definition be both male and female. Atum masturbating into his hand. The Androgyni. Adam Kadmon. His thoughts drifted uselessly to a halt.

  He began switching the clusters of letters around on the windscreen, looking for patterns, anagrams. But then he heard an engine rumbling nearby and hurriedly switched off his interior light. A truck prowled into view, turning this way and that, using its beams like twin searchlights to illuminate great swathes of the sugar cane. They swept past where he was hiding, throwing thin bars of yellow light over the pages, settling for a moment on two of the clusters,?? and??, before moving on once more. If he hadn't had divine forms on his mind, no way would he have spotted it, but???? transliterated into E
nglish as thedi; and theoeides was Greek for the divine form. A third possible link to a single concept all within one diagram. Could it really be coincidence?

  The headlights vanished as the truck drove on. He gave them twenty seconds or so before his impatience grew too much for him and he turned his interior light back on. His spirits dipped as he saw that the two clusters?? and?? weren't adjacent, but then he realized they were connected by the unbroken line that made up the seven-pointed star. He jotted down the cluster at which the central figure was pointing, then followed the line all the way around.

  K?? XA? HN?????P??

  He stared down at these letters, trying to impel his mind to the solution, until suddenly the answer burst like sunlight in his mind. But he had no time to celebrate. The truck's headlights sprang on at that moment, full beam and directly at him, dazzling him through his windscreen.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  I

  Knox switched on his own lights, stamped down his foot, surged out of the sugar cane, the Toyota throwing up great sprays of water; startled faces in the truck, the driver wrenching his steering wheel, his passenger calling in back-up. He sped alongside the field until he spotted a track, swung down it, driving by feel, stalks drumming against his flanks.

  Headlights in front, a car speeding past on a road, he spilled too fast out onto it, charging into the tilled field opposite before swinging around, accelerating away. He rounded a tight bend, saw two police cars blocking the lane ahead, slammed on his brakes, muddy tyres struggling for grip on the saturated surface. He put it into reverse, but another police car was coming up fast behind. He steered off the road, down a short embankment into a quagmire field, changed to four-wheel, gained traction, the pursuing police car bogging down behind. He reached an abandoned railway spur, turned left, jolting along the sleepers, checking his mirrors, hoping he'd got away. But then a pair of headlights appeared in his rear-view, shuddering over the tracks, and then a second pair. He looked left and right, but the track was bracketed by waterlogged ditches that even the Toyota would struggle to get out of.