The Exodus Quest

by Will Adams

  ‘We know who you are.’

  ‘I was out in the desert yesterday. I found the body of a young girl.’

  ‘My son Mahmoud found her,’ grunted Tarek. ‘He reported it to you, as we’ve been instructed.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Naguib. ‘And I’m very grateful, believe me. But I’m having little success finding out who she was, what happened to her.’

  Tarek shook his head. ‘She wasn’t from around here. That’s all we can tell you.’

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘We know our own people.’

  ‘Any idea where she might have come from?’

  ‘We’re not as isolated as we once were, as you yourself know. People come and then they go again.’

  ‘But you see them. You’re aware of them.’

  ‘We weren’t aware of this one.’

  Naguib leaned forward. ‘We found a figurine on her. An Amarna artefact.’

  An exchange of glances, surprise and curiosity. ‘What’s that to do with us?’

  ‘I’ve heard that no one is as skilled at finding artefacts as you ghaffirs. I’ve heard that you find the sites that even the archaeologists can’t find.’

  ‘Then you’ve heard true enough,’ nodded Tarek. ‘Though naturally we always tell them straight away.’

  ‘Naturally,’ agreed Naguib, once the laughter had died down. He took the figurine from his pocket, passed it across. ‘Perhaps you might have some idea where this came from?’

  Tarek examined it, shook his head, passed it to his neighbour. ‘Most artefacts like this are in the wadis. We’re not allowed in the wadis any more.’

  Naguib frowned. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Ask your friend Captain Khaled,’ scowled Tarek. ‘And if he tells you, I’d be grateful if you let us know. He’s taken away a source of good revenue.’ There were murmurs of assent from around the room.

  ‘When did this happen?’ asked Naguib.

  Tarek shrugged, leaned across to confer with the man next to him. ‘Six months ago,’ he said.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tarek, nodding at the wall of rain outside. ‘It was the day after the last great storm.’

  V

  It was a while since Augustin had flown a remote-controlled aircraft. But once it was up, his hands took over and he began enjoying himself. He sent the plane on several passes of Peterson’s site, Hani snapping photographs at his command with the camera’s remote. But then he nudged his arm, pointed to a white pick-up driving along the lane on the other side of the wall, three burly security guards on the flatbed gazing up into the sky like wise men following a star. ‘I thought this was an official SCA survey,’ he murmured.

  ‘You’d better get out of here,’ said Augustin.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I can’t just leave you.’

  ‘This isn’t your fight.’

  Hani shrugged but nodded, set down the remote control, slipped away.

  Augustin steered the plane away along the line of the lane, teasing the pick-up after it, before putting it into a circle for long enough for Hani to reach his taxi and get away. Then he aimed it back his way, walking briskly as he worked the controls, his eyes fixed on it. He heard the pick-up’s engine. A cry went up. He’d been spotted. No time for finesse now. He sent the plane into a dive, crunching into the hard ground fifty metres ahead. Its fuselage crumpled, its red foam wings sprang loose. He threw down the remote and sprinted for it. A glance around, the three men on foot closing fast. He grabbed the camera, tried to wrench it free, only succeeding in buckling the catches. He picked the whole thing up, trying to undo the clasps on the run. He legs tangled in the fuselage, he went sprawling, finally wrested the camera free. The first of his pursuers was just a few paces behind, putting in a frantic burst to catch him, diving and slapping one of his ankles against the other, sending Augustin sprawling. But he sprang straight back up to his feet again, the copse just twenty metres ahead. He reached his bike, straddled her, started her up, glanced back. His pursuers had fallen far behind, had come to a halt, were heaving for air. He revved the engine victoriously, gave them a cheerful wave as he sped out of the trees onto the lane.

  The pick-up struck him side-on. He slithered along its bonnet, struck its slanted windscreen, catching a glimpse of Griffin the other side of the glass, every bit as shocked by the collision as Augustin himself. And then he was in the air, his world spinning crazily, wondering with more curiosity than fear if it would be the last thing he ever saw.

  FORTY

  I

  The digging wasn’t easy. The sand and rubble had compacted like concrete over the centuries. Gaille’s fingernails were soon ripped and bleeding from scrabbling it up. But fear kept her at it. Worms of water had started slithering down the walls, gathering in puddles at the foot.

  ‘Could you light a match, please?’ asked Lily, breathing heavily.

  ‘We’ve only got a couple left.’

  ‘But I think I’ve found something.’

  ‘What?’ asked Stafford.

  ‘I don’t know. Why do you think I need a match?’

  The flare hurt Gaille’s eyes, they’d been in the dark so long. And that sulphurous smell! She lit the candle, took it across. Lily was right. There was indeed something at the bottom of the wall. A line of hieroglyphs.

  ‘What do they say?’ asked Lily.

  Gaille shook her head. The faded glyphs were hard enough to see in the poor light, let alone decipher. But the implications of their being here at all were enough to excite her. She’d assumed, from the crudely-cut walls of the entrance and burial chambers, that this tomb was simply another of the half-finished efforts that pocked these cliffs, abandoned because of the poor-quality limestone or because the Amarna era had come to an end before the prospective occupant had died. She’d further assumed that, because the layout of this place was so similar to that of the nearby Royal Tomb, this shaft was a sump designed to protect the burial chamber. But now that she thought further, she realized her assumptions were flawed. The sump in the Royal Tomb made perfect sense because its mouth was on the wadi floor, putting it in danger from flash floods. But the mouth of this tomb wasn’t on the wadi floor. It was far nearer the top than the bottom. Flooding wouldn’t have been a significant issue, at least until the rift had formed above it, so a sump served little purpose. And, anyway, how deep did they need it? They were a good six metres down already, and still not at the bottom. So maybe it wasn’t a sump after all. Maybe it was something else.

  ‘Well?’ asked Lily.

  Gaille passed Lily the candle to hold while she scraped away more sand. ‘I don’t suppose either of you have ever visited the tomb of Seti the First, have you?’ she asked.

  II

  Augustin lay dazed in the lane for a few moments before he looked up and around to find himself surrounded by Griffin and his security guards. They looked down anxiously at him, expecting him to be grievously hurt or even dead, but he surprised them by trying to get to his feet. No chance. They picked him up and heaved him unceremoniously onto the back of the pick-up. His head, chest and thigh all throbbed violently. He felt such an urge to vomit that he turned onto his side and braced himself. But the sensation passed. He fell onto his back again, looked up at the security guard standing above him. ‘If you’ve damaged my bike, you little fuck …’ he warned.

  The man smiled and looked away.

  They turned off the lane, jolted over the earthen bridge. Throbs became stabs. They pulled up outside a low brick building. Griffin got out, unlocked and opened the steel door. Augustin bellowed as he was dragged from the back of the pick-up into the building. Several of Peterson’s young crew gathered nearby, glaring sourly, as though glad to see he’d got what had been coming to him; but an angular fair-headed woman was with them too, surely the same one he’d glimpsed driving away from the site with Griffin the previous afternoon. And she looked anxious, appalled.


  He was thrown down onto the floor between a rack of empty shelves and a worktable. The door was slammed shut, the key turned, leaving him in almost complete darkness. He lay there a moment, almost weeping because it hurt so much. He slid a hand inside his shirt onto his tender ribcage. No fracture that he could detect, just bruising. A fond childhood memory, leaping recklessly off a waterfall only to find the pool beneath shallower than it had looked. His mother, once she’d overcome her shock, boasting about his tungsten bones. He stifled a cry as he pushed himself up onto his feet. It pleased him to feel this much pain, yet be able to master it. It made him feel more like a man than he had for weeks. He hobbled to the door. Steel, to judge by its coldness. Neither handle nor bolts on the inside.

  It was several minutes before he heard footsteps outside, the key scraping in the lock. The door pushed open, late afternoon sunshine flooding in so brightly he could only see silhouettes for a moment, three of them. An internal light was turned on, a yellow bulb dangling from the ceiling. Two people came in. The third stayed outside, closing the door behind them.

  Augustin blinked as his vision adjusted. Griffin and the fair-headed young woman, carrying a tray of medical supplies.

  ‘Here he is, then,’ muttered Griffin, folding his arms.

  ‘I want my wallet,’ said Augustin. ‘My phone.’ Even speaking softly, the words made his ribs throb.

  ‘Sure,’ snorted Griffin. He turned to the woman. ‘Well? I thought you wanted to check him over.’

  She set her tray down on the ground. Ungainly, all bones and joints, with slightly beaked features. Aware of it too, uncomfortable with being looked at. Pale freckled skin, fragrant and moist with generous slathers of suntan lotion. A plain silver cross dangling from a chain around her slender long throat. She stood back up, tilting her head slightly, so that wisps of her hair fell like a bead curtain over her face.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ demanded Augustin.

  ‘I’m here to examine you,’ she said. ‘It’ll only take a moment.’

  ‘Examine me?’

  ‘Make sure nothing’s broken, nothing’s ruptured.’ She frowned, perhaps made a little uncertain by his French accent. ‘You know what ruptured means?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Augustin sardonically. ‘I know what ruptured means. And if something is ruptured?’

  She threw a defiant glance at Griffin. ‘Then I’m taking you to hospital.’

  Well, well, well, thought Augustin. He put a hand against his side, winced and sucked in breath. ‘I think something’s ruptured for sure,’ he said.

  A laugh like a hiccup escaped the woman; she put her hand to her mouth as though she’d done something rude. Rather to Augustin’s surprise, he found himself warming to her. ‘So you’re a doctor then, are you?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Not exactly. No.’

  ‘I’ve been in a serious accident,’ he protested. ‘I could be grievously injured. I need to see a—’

  A knock on the door. A young man with short-cropped blond hair poked in his head.

  ‘What now?’ asked Griffin irritably.

  ‘The airline people,’ said the young man. ‘They want to speak to you.’

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘The credit card’s in your name. They want to speak to you.’

  Griffin gave an exasperated sigh, a boss trapped by his own importance. ‘Examine him and then leave,’ he told the woman curtly. ‘And don’t let him get you talking.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed.

  ‘Ramiz will be outside. Any trouble at all, give him a shout. He’ll know what to do.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The door closed behind him. The key turned in the lock. Augustin smiled at the woman. ‘Well,’ he said, rubbing his hands. ‘Let’s get this examination started, shall we?’

  III

  For the first fifteen minutes of the drive, Knox feared that Peterson would discover him at any moment in the back of the Toyota. But as they clocked up the miles, he simply grew bored, having to remind himself that he was just a few feet away from a man who’d almost certainly tried to kill him twice already.

  As best he could judge, they were on a busy, good road. The angle of sunlight suggested they were heading south. Towards Cairo, presumably, though Knox had no idea why. After two hours or so, Peterson applied the brakes sharply enough to push Knox forward into the back of the rear seats. The indicator stuttered; they turned off, pulled to a stop. Peterson got out, unscrewed the petrol cap right by Knox’s head. Fuel gushed in. Knox kept absolutely still lest movement give him away. The cap was screwed back on. Knox heard footsteps over the concourse. He allowed himself to breathe once more. He sat up in time to see Peterson go inside the office to pay. He climbed over the rear seats, intending to let himself out, but then he glimpsed some sheets of paper lying loose on the passenger seat, the top one a printout from Gaille’s Internet Digging Diary, that photograph of her standing outside her room with two archaeologists from Fatima’s team. He froze a moment, then slid it aside to look at the one beneath it. Another print-out, this one with directions to Fatima’s Hermopolis compound. So that was it. Peterson was spooked by the thought of his photos still on Gaille’s laptop.

  A door banged closed. He glanced up to see Peterson coming back out. He had no time to resume his previous position. He ducked down behind the driver’s seat as Peterson climbed back in.

  FORTY-ONE

  I

  ‘Airline people, huh,’ said Augustin. ‘You off somewhere?’

  The young woman smiled warily. ‘I’m here to check you’re okay. Not to talk.’

  ‘But what if I’m not okay? I think I’m seriously injured. I need a proper doctor.’

  ‘You’re showing remarkable resilience for a man at death’s door. Besides, I know what I’m doing. I really do. And it’s me or no one, I’m afraid. It was hard enough persuading Mister Griffin to …’ She broke off, annoyed with herself for letting herself be drawn even that far, not wanting to compound it.

  Augustin let it go. Push too hard now, he’d turn her against him. There was a footstool against the wall, so that people could reach the top shelves. She fetched it, stood on it to examine his scalp, parting his hair carefully to clean the mess beneath. Her blouse was close to his face; he glimpsed flashes of her pale freckled skin between the buttons, the sturdy white cup of a sensible bra. She applied a disinfectant. He did his best not to wince. She got off her stool, stood face-to-face with him, lifted his eyelids in turn, looked deep into his eyes. Her own irises were of speckled blue, her pupils dilating in response to his. ‘Take off your shirt, please,’ she said.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Please. You heard Mister Griffin.’

  ‘Just your name. That’s all I ask.’

  She gave him a reluctant smile. ‘Claire.’

  ‘Claire! I love that name.’ He unbuttoned his shirt gingerly. ‘You know it means light in French?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It suits you. My grandmother was Claire. A wonderful woman. Truly wonderful. She had the kindest hands.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Of course.’ He grimaced in pain as he tugged his shirt from his waistband, discarded it. He looked self-consciously down at his stomach, wishing he’d taken more exercise recently. ‘So you’re an archaeologist then, are you, Claire?’

  ‘I’m not talking to you.’

  ‘I guess you must be if you’re working here.’

  She gave a sigh. ‘I’m project administrator, actually. I speak and write some Arabic, you see.’

  ‘You speak Arabic? How come?’

  ‘My father was in oil. I grew up in the Gulf. You know how easy it is to pick up languages when you’re a kid. That’s why the reverend asked me along, I think. That plus my medical experience. It always comes in useful in places like these.’

  ‘Places like these?’

  Her cheeks flushed, she ducked her eyes. ‘Oh, you know.’

 
‘No,’ frowned Augustin. ‘I’m not sure I do. Unless you mean places too primitive to have doctors of their own?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that at all,’ she protested. ‘Like I said, I grew up in the Middle East. I love it here. It’s just, it can be awkward enough for people to go to a doctor back home, especially youngsters. But in a foreign country, you know, when they can’t even speak the language …’ She tried a smile. ‘We Americans, you know. Not the best travellers.’

  ‘So what medical experience do you have, exactly? If I’m to let you check me over.’

  She placed her palms on his chest, palpating his ribcage gently, listening intently, checking his expression for signs of pain. ‘I was a medical student for five years.’

  ‘Five years? And then you just gave it up?’

  ‘My father fell ill.’ She tipped her head to the side, not quite sure why she was confiding so much to this stranger. ‘He was out of work at the time. He didn’t have … the right kind of insurance. My mother had already passed. He needed looking after.’

  ‘So you stepped in?’

  She nodded, her thoughts elsewhere. ‘Have you ever looked after someone like that. Someone who’s dying?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve never looked after anyone except myself.’

  ‘Peterson and his church were great, you know. They did so much for us. They run this wonderful volunteer visitor programme. Honestly, we’d never have managed without them. And a hospice, too; where my father … you know. Plus an orphanage, and shelters for homeless people, lots of things like that. They’re good people. They really are. The reverend’s a good man.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re here? To thank them?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘How come I saw you leaving the site yesterday?’

  She scratched her nose, pretending not to have heard, or not to understand. But Augustin let the question hang there, and the silence finally got to her. She looked up at him rather sheepishly. ‘How do you mean?’