The Exodus Quest

by Will Adams

  ‘Come on, Kostas. Just tell me.’

  ‘Patience, young man. Patience.’ He pulled out a weighty church encyclopaedia from his shelves, hefted it over to the corner table, licked his thumb and forefinger to turn the thin leaves until he found the page. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They had a temple on one of the Greek islands.’

  Knox frowned as he recalled his recent phone call with Augustin. ‘Not Cephallonia, I don’t suppose?’

  Kostas smiled quizzically. ‘How on earth did you know that?’

  ‘What else does it say?’

  He licked his fingertips, turned the page. ‘Ha! How about that!’

  ‘How about what?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Oh, you’ll like this.’

  ‘Come on, Kostas. Just tell me, will you?’

  ‘You know how Christian groups identified each other with secret signs and markings like the fish and the cross? Well, the Carpocratians had one of their own.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It doesn’t say,’ said Kostas. ‘All it says is where on their bodies it was tattooed.’

  ‘And?’

  Kostas’s eyes twinkled. ‘It was on the back of their right earlobes,’ he said.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I

  The mobile continued to ring. ‘Turn that off,’ said Khaled. Then louder, a touch of panic in his voice: ‘Turn it off.’ Stafford reached slowly into his pocket, pulled out his mobile, turned it off. But it was too late. The damage was done. Or, more accurately, the ringing had made Khaled aware of a serious problem. Mobile phones emitted as well as received signals, even when they weren’t being used. They just had to be switched on, as Stafford’s clearly was.

  If he disappeared now, it would be a simple matter for the police to trace their movements. They’d come straight here. He and his men would be their automatic chief suspects. Out would come the canes, the hosepipes, the water-boarding. And one of them would surely crack. Faisal, probably. There was something almost womanish about him.

  Abdullah had been summoned from sentry-duty by the sound of gunfire. ‘What going on?’ he panted.

  ‘What does it look like?’ scowled Khaled, glaring at the foreigners. The tomb had seemed a gift from Allah. But now he saw it for what it truly was. A satanic trap. Five years in jail, if they were caught. Five years minimum. More likely ten or even more. And Khaled had seen the inside of Egypt’s prisons. They were cramped and dirty places, filled with disease and brutality. He wasn’t a weakling, but the prospect unnerved him.

  ‘Why don’t we just kill them, sir?’ asked Nasser, ever the practical one. ‘Dump them in the desert, like we did with the girl.’

  ‘Yes,’ scoffed Khaled. ‘And that worked well, didn’t it?’

  ‘We have more time this time. We have all night.’

  ‘All night?’ snarled Khaled. ‘Don’t you know what’s going to happen when these people don’t appear wherever they’re expected?’ He pointed his gun at the woman Lily. ‘Where are you expected?’

  ‘Assiut,’ she said, her face drained of colour. ‘The Cleopatra Hotel.’

  He turned back to Nasser. ‘The moment they don’t show up, their hotel will notify the authorities. Nothing terrifies them more than bad things happening to foreigners, especially to TV people. It jeopardizes their hotel investments, their precious tourist dollars. Believe me, by morning there’ll be a manhunt like you’ve never seen! And the first place they’ll come is here. And the first thing they’ll do is follow all the tyre tracks in the sand out to this wonderful hiding place of yours.’

  ‘Then let’s dump them in the Nile.’ Nasser made waves with his fingers to indicate a car vanishing beneath the surface.

  Khaled shook his head. ‘Without being spotted? And even if by some miracle we get away with it now, the police are sure to drag the river, or some fisherman will snag his net on the car. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, their damned mobile phones are going to lead them straight to us.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Nasser gloomily. ‘Then what are we going to do?’

  ‘I’m trying to think,’ scowled Khaled. ‘Give me some quiet, will you?’ He squatted, not wanting his men to see how baffled he was. Perhaps he could shift all the blame onto them. Make it look like a shakedown gone wrong. A gunfight erupting, leaving the three foreigners and all his men dead. But it was a desperate solution. Even a half-competent investigator would see straight through it. So maybe they should strike a deal. But while these foreigners were scared enough to agree to anything right now, that would all change the moment they were released.

  ‘We should blame it on terrorists,’ muttered Abdullah. ‘They’re always killing foreigners.’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ scoffed Khaled, seizing the opportunity to vent some anger. ‘But, tell me, which terrorists, exactly?’ He waved an arm around the desolate wadi. ‘Show me these terrorists of yours and sure, we’ll blame it on them.’

  ‘It was only a suggestion, sir.’

  ‘There aren’t any terrorists around Amarna. Don’t you know that? They’re all down in Assiut and …’ He broke off, a thought coming to him. Abdullah was absolutely right. In Egypt, only terrorists would dare take out foreigners like this. And it was a story the authorities would instinctively believe. The merest hint of terrorism made intelligent people behave like idiots. As far as anyone knew, these three were on their way to Assiut tonight. There’d been major unrest down there recently. He’d been watching it on TV. Riots. Demonstrations. Firebrand Muslims up in arms against the West because five of their brethren had been arrested for the rape and murder of two young Coptic girls. And, just like that, the idea came to him.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ asked Nasser, reading inspiration on his face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘One moment,’ begged Khaled. He thought it through, its implications, the resources they’d need, the steps they’d have to take. It was crazy, yes, but then the situation was crazy and demanded crazy solutions.

  ‘Please, sir,’ pressed Nasser. ‘Tell us.’

  Khaled nodded twice, breathed deeply. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘This is what we’re going to do.’

  II

  Knox sat back in his chair, leather creaking voluptuously, giving himself a chance to assimilate his new knowledge. Peterson and his team had cut those six ears from the mummies to check them for tattoos under ultraviolet light. That, along with the link to the TSBA’s previous excavations in Cephallonia, surely meant that they were here on the trail of the Carpocratians. The only question left was why.

  Kostas brooded for a moment or two when Knox put this to him. ‘These Texan archaeologists of yours: they’re highly religious, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then there is one possibility, I suppose. You see, the Carpocratians were reputed to—’ The doorbell sounded at that moment. Kostas broke off, sighed, pushed himself to his feet. ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Of course.’ Knox went over to the table. The encyclopaedia was lying open. He scanned the entry for the Carpocratians, but nothing caught his eye. He wandered the shelves instead, pulled down a slim biography of Philo, flipped through the creamy pages, the crumbling leather binding leaving smears like dried blood on his palms and fingers.

  The library door reopened. Knox looked around to see Kostas standing there, pale and shaken. ‘What is it?’ frowned Knox. But then he saw two policemen come into view behind Kostas and instantly went cold. He’d thought himself safe here; had allowed himself to relax. But somehow they’d found him. For a mad moment, he contemplated trying to run for it, but there was nowhere to go. And then he caught the glimmer of a smile twitch on the shorter of the two policemen’s lips, as though that was exactly what he wanted, an excuse to lay in to him. So he forced himself to relax instead, go quietly; see if he couldn’t find out what the hell was going on, and how they’d tracked him here.

  III

  Augustin and Farooq were learning precisely nothing from Peterson’s archaeology students, crew-cut clones with morons-for-Jesus smiles who all just happened
to have exactly the same story to tell. ‘And your name is?’ Farooq asked the latest arrival.

  ‘Green, sir. Michael Green.’ He glanced around at Peterson, standing over his shoulder, as though he needed to check he’d got his own name right.

  ‘And you saw this intruder too?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Well, sir. It was kind of dark, you know. I don’t know that I can—’

  Farooq’s mobile began to ring. He sighed and raised an eyebrow at Augustin. ‘I need to answer this,’ he grunted. ‘You want to take his statement?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Augustin, stifling a yawn. He nodded at the young man as Farooq wandered off. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I was just saying, I don’t know that I can add much to what the others told you.’

  ‘Try. What was this intruder doing?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

  ‘Was he standing, kneeling, crawling? Was he coming towards you? Going away? What was he wearing? How tall was he? What colour hair? Did he realize you’d spotted him?’

  ‘Ah.’ A touch of colour flamed Michael’s cheeks. He glanced at Peterson once more. ‘It’s difficult to remember, exactly,’ he said. ‘It all happened so quickly.’

  ‘You must have some recollection.’

  Peterson stepped forward. ‘Is it really wise to bully witnesses into telling you things they didn’t see?’

  ‘I want to make sure he isn’t forgetting anything.’

  ‘Are you forgetting anything, Michael?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘There you go, Doctor Pascal. He’s not forgetting anything.’

  ‘Good news,’ announced Farooq, finishing his phone call, coming back to join them. ‘My men have found Knox.’

  Augustin’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What?’

  ‘Do you know the thing I hate most in this world, Doctor Pascal?’ he asked. ‘Being taken for a fool. All those people at the Supreme Council this morning. Do you know what they told me? They told me, if I wanted to find Knox, I should talk to you, Augustin Pascal. Pascal will know, they said. He and Knox are best friends. But when I ask you about Knox, you tell me nothing about this great friendship of yours. Not one word. You think I’m an idiot? Is that what you think?’

  ‘Oh, Christ! You speak French.’

  Farooq’s right hook knocked Augustin clean onto his backside. ‘And that’s for calling my mother a fat sow,’ he said.

  TWENTY-NINE

  I

  The camera was still lying where Lily had dropped it. Its lens and display were intact, but its battery pack had come away from its housing and wouldn’t slot back in, however Khaled twisted and pushed. He handed it to Faisal, who was good with such things. ‘Fix it,’ he scowled.

  But it took Faisal only a moment’s examination to shake his head. ‘I’ll need proper tools,’ he grunted. He checked through the pouches of the camera bag, found an electrical lead instead. ‘This might work,’ he said. ‘We could try one of the power-points in the Royal Tomb.’

  Khaled nodded. It was a good idea, though they’d need to cover up the wall paintings or they’d give themselves away. ‘Nasser,’ he said. ‘Go fetch the blankets and sheets from the other tomb. Abdullah, you turn on the generator.’ He walked back over to the foreigners. ‘Your possessions, please. Phones, wallets, watches, car keys, jewellery. Everything. On the rocks.’ He gave them a cuff or two to keep them compliant, scooped it all up, put it away in the camera bag. ‘On your feet,’ he ordered.

  ‘What are you going to do with us?’ whined Stafford.

  ‘Just move, will you?’

  The generator started up just as they reached the Royal Tomb, so that the floor-lights glowed and then grew bright. They herded the foreigners down into the burial chamber. Faisal plugged in and tested the camera. Its operating light came on. About time something went their way. Abdullah arrived, then Nasser with his arms full of dustsheets. There was a crudely cut niche high up in the wall in the far right corner of the chamber. They hung a sheet like a curtain from it, obscuring the murals behind. They spread another on the floor.

  Satisfied, Khaled patted his pocket for something to write with, then sat on the floor to compose his message.

  II

  The policemen put Knox in a small dank holding cell with two other detainees: a tall thin straggle-bearded youth in a tan galabaya who fingered beads and muttered incessantly, and a sallow forty-something man in a mussed white suit who lay restlessly on the bench opposite, sitting up every so often, rubbing his hands and cheeks like a deprived addict.

  The stone walls, softened by damp, were everywhere scratched with graffiti. Knox read them while he waited. He brooded too. Only Augustin had known he was with Kostas. And the photographs Augustin kept in that folder gave him a motive. But he was also his closest friend, and Knox had never met a man more loyal to his friends than Augustin. No way would he deliberately betray him. There had to be another explanation.

  It was a good hour before the door scraped open again and a policeman beckoned. He was led through a recreation room full with off-duty policemen watching the football on a flickering TV screen high up on the wall, then along a narrow corridor to an interview room, where he took a seat at a bare pine table. An overweight policeman arrived a minute later, a notepad in one hand, a carton of juice in the other.

  ‘What’s going on?’ demanded Knox.

  The man sat as if he hadn’t heard a word, jotted down Knox’s name, checked his watch for the time. He had surprisingly elegant handwriting. ‘My name is Farooq,’ he said. Knox gave the faintest of snorts, for the name Farooq meant one who could tell truth from falsehood. Farooq looked up sharply. ‘You speak Arabic, then?’ he said.

  ‘I get by.’ It was only then that he realized how he’d been tracked down. ‘And you speak French, yes?’

  Farooq grinned wickedly. ‘I get by,’ he acknowledged. ‘You’ve lived in Egypt long?’

  ‘Ten years.’

  ‘May I see your papers?’

  ‘Not on me.’

  ‘If you’ve lived here ten years, you should have learned to carry your papers at all times.’

  ‘I’ll go get them if you like.’

  Farooq tapped his pen on his pad, thinking how best to approach this. ‘Tell me something, Mister Knox,’ he said. ‘You were in a serious car crash last night. You were knocked unconscious. You were taken to hospital, seemingly a sensible place for a man who’s been in a serious accident. Yet this morning you ran away. Why?’

  ‘I don’t have insurance. Those places cost a fortune.’

  ‘A man died last night, Mister Knox. Do you think this is funny?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I ask again: why run away?’

  Knox hesitated. The truth would sound implausible, but maybe it was worth trying. ‘A man came into my room,’ he said. ‘He tried to kill me.’

  ‘With one of my officers stationed outside?’

  ‘He put a pillow over my face.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that? You think I’m a fool?’

  ‘Why else would I have run away?’

  Farooq tapped his pen some more. ‘Describe this man to me.’

  ‘It was dark. I had concussion.’

  ‘Why not call for help?’

  ‘I tried to. I had no voice. But I did pull my IV stand over. It was all I could manage. Your officer came running in. He fetched a nurse. The nurse righted the stand. I tried to tell him …’ He gestured helplessly at his throat. ‘Ask your officer if you don’t believe me.’

  Farooq glared at Knox, trying to intimidate him into buckling and retracting, but Knox held his gaze. ‘Wait here,’ said Farooq finally, pushing to his feet. ‘I’ll be back in one minute.’

  III

  Fear was like ulcers in Gaille’s gut as she watched Khaled and his men go about their work. She’d seen murder in Khaled’s eyes earlier. She had no doubt that he’d have killed them all without a q
ualm had Stafford’s phone not rung. She knew for sure that her life depended on his say-so.

  Nasser and Abdullah tore a cotton sheet into strips, wrapped them around their faces, leaving thin slits for their eyes and nostrils, anonymous yet terrifying. Faisal unwrapped a new DVD, slid it into Lily’s camera. Khaled finished writing his note, came across. ‘Kneel,’ he said. They all knelt compliantly on the dustsheet. He thrust his note at Gaille. ‘Read,’ he told her.

  She glanced at his Arabic scrawl, looked up in alarm. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Khaled aimed his Walther at the bridge of her nose. ‘Read.’

  ‘Don’t do it,’ said Stafford.

  Khaled whipped Stafford across the cheek with his Walther so hard that he cried out and fell onto his side. He put a hand to his face; it came back bloodied. He looked at it in disbelief, welling up with tears of shock. Khaled aimed down at him, but it was Gaille he looked at. ‘You’ll read,’ he told her.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, feeling faint with terror. He retreated behind Faisal, arms folded, for all the world like the producer of some cheap flick, while Nasser and Abdullah, faces concealed behind their makeshift masks, stood behind them, their weapons held aslant across their chests.

  Stafford pushed himself back up onto his knees, blood still trickling from his cheek. Khaled tapped Faisal’s shoulder. The camera’s operating light came on. He nodded at Gaille to read. It was her chance to communicate with the outside world. She might never get another. She adjusted her posture, tucking her legs beneath her, sitting up straight, throwing back her shoulders. Then she transferred the note to her left hand and raised her right hand for emphasis. ‘We are prisoners of the Assiut Islamic Brotherhood,’ she began. ‘Our captors are treating us well. They promise to continue to treat us well unless efforts are made to find us. They assure us we will be released unharmed when our brothers, falsely imprisoned for the murder of the two girls, are released without charge. If they are not released without charge within fourteen days, the Assiut Islamic Brotherhood will not be responsible for what then happens. God is great.’