The Exodus Quest

by Will Adams

  ‘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.

  ‘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 antiqu
ities 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 and 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.