by Paul Sussman
She sat up straight again, looking over at Freya.
‘As it is we have scoured every inch of the Gilf Kebir and a hundred and fifty miles out into the desert 360 degrees around it, and we haven’t found a bean. We’ve looked from the air, we’ve looked from space, we’ve looked on the ground, we’ve turned over what feels like every piece of rock from Abu Ballas and the Great Sand Sea down to Jebel Uweinat and Yerguehda Hill. And after all that …’
She gave a helpless snort.
‘Nada. Nothing. An eighty-foot, twenty-ton aeroplane just upped and vanished. Believe me, I don’t go in for occult superstition, but even I’ve started to think all that stuff in the Imti-Khentika papyrus about curses and spells of concealment might have some truth to it. I sure as goodness can’t come up with any other explanation.’
Outside a car alarm started blaring, stopping almost immediately. Kiernan stood and took another peek through the curtains before turning back, folding her arms.
‘For the first few years we threw everything we had at the problem. After that we started to scale back. If we couldn’t find the oasis, we figured, it was highly unlikely Girgis or anyone else was going to. We obviously kept an eye on things, especially after 9/11 – it doesn’t bear thinking about what would happen if a group like al-Qaeda got wind there was fifty kilos of highly enriched uranium sitting unprotected out in the middle of the desert. We still carry out regular satellite and U-2 surveillance sweeps, have a Special Ops unit on permanent standby down in Kharga in case something does turn up. But for the most part we’ve been relying on what we call ANOs, Amenable Non-Operatives: civilians who for whatever reason have a particular knowledge of, or involvement, with the geographical area we’re interested in, and might conceivably stumble on something we’ve missed.’
She nodded towards the sofa.
‘Flin I’d got to know back in the nineties, when he was with MI6. After he …’
A fractional hesitation, as if she was choosing the right words.
‘… ended his association with British Intelligence and went back into Egyptology, moved out here, I got in touch, asked for his help. An obvious choice given the work he was doing.’
‘And Alex?’ asked Freya.
‘Again, your sister was an obvious choice. Our paths had crossed back in Langley when she was temping in the CIA cartographic department. When I heard she’d settled in Dakhla I looked her up and outlined the situation. With the exception of Zahir al-Sabri I’ve never met anyone who knew the Gilf as well as Alex did. She agreed to get involved, in return for which we channelled some money into her research. Although to be honest, I think it was more the challenge that attracted her than the funding or a desire to protect the free world. Alex being Alex, I got the impression she looked on it all as a bit of a colourful adventure.’
Freya shook her head sadly. That was exactly why Alex would have got involved, she thought – because it was something different, something intriguing. She’d never been able to resist a mystery. And this one had got her killed. Poor Alex. Poor darling Alex.
‘… kept everything as simple as we could,’ Kiernan was saying. ‘They reported to me and that was it, they had no involvement with the Agency per se. We’d just about convinced ourselves the plane was never going to be found. That it was just one of those inexplicable, Bermuda Triangle-type mysteries. And then suddenly after twenty-three years, Rudi Schmidt’s body appears out of nowhere and the whole thing’s blown wide open again.’
She sighed and rubbed her temples. She looked, thought Freya, even more careworn than when they’d first arrived in the flat.
‘Unbelievable,’ she said. ‘And, obviously, extremely worrying. Saddam might be gone but there are plenty of others who’d be more than happy to pick up his end of the deal. And Romani Girgis is not the sort of man to quibble about who he does business with.’
She swivelled round and took yet another look out of the window, head craning back and forth before she turned back again. Silence.
‘So what now?’ asked Freya. ‘What are you going to do?’
Kiernan shrugged.
‘There’s not really a whole lot we can do. We’ll get those computer-analysed’ – she indicated the photos in Flin’s hand – ‘ramp up our surveillance of the Gilf and Girgis. Aside from that …’
She threw up her hands.
‘Watch, wait, twiddle our thumbs. That’s about it.’
‘But Girgis murdered my sister,’ said Freya. ‘He killed Alex.’
Kiernan’s brow furrowed at this, her eyes flicking across to Flin, who gave a barely perceptible shake of the head as if to say ‘Let it go.’
‘Girgis killed my sister,’ Freya repeated, her face flushing. ‘I’m not just going to sit around doing nothing. Do you understand? I’m not just going to let it go.’
Her voice was starting to rise. Kiernan came over and squatted down in front of her. Reaching out, she squeezed her arm.
‘Romani Girgis will get what’s coming to him,’ she said. ‘If you trust me on nothing else, trust me on this.’
There was a pause, Kiernan holding Freya’s eyes. Then, with a nod, she rose again.
‘Right now, though, I think we’ve talked enough and you should go get that shower. Because from where I’m standing you don’t smell so good.’
She smiled and despite herself Freya did too. Exhausted suddenly, she stood.
‘You said there were clean clothes.’
‘First bedroom on the right,’ said Kiernan. ‘On the bed. You’ll find towels there as well. And do watch the temperature control on the shower – it’s got a will of its own.’
Freya crossed to the door, stepping out into the corridor, only to turn and put her head back into the room again.
‘I’m sorry about the gun thing,’ she said to Flin. ‘In the taxi. I was never going to shoot you.’
He waved a hand.
‘I know. You’d left the safety catch on. Try not to use all the hot water.’
After she’d left, Kiernan eased herself into the armchair Freya had just vacated. The hiss of the shower echoed from the far end of the flat.
‘She’s just like Alex, don’t you think?’
Flin was working through the photographs again, still in his filthy shirt and jeans.
‘Different as well,’ he said, not looking up. ‘Darker. She’s definitely got baggage.’
He held one photo above his head, squinted at it.
‘Alex never did tell me what happened between them,’ he added, almost as an afterthought. ‘It was the one thing she’d never talk about.’
He lowered the photo and held up another. Kiernan watched him, drumming her fingers on the arm of the chair.
‘See anything?’
Flin shook his head.
‘Although this one’s interesting.’
He handed her the picture he’d been examining – a statue of a human figure with the head of a crocodile. It stood on a large, cube-shaped plinth on whose face – clearly visible – was a hieroglyphic text framed within the coils of a serpent.
‘Sobek and Apep?’ asked Kiernan.
Flin nodded.
‘The same curse formula as in the Imti-Khentika papyrus. May evildoers be crushed in the jaws of Sobek, and swallowed into the belly of the serpent Apep. Except here there’s something more. See.’
He leant forward and tapped a finger on the bottom of the picture.
‘And inside the serpent’s belly,’ he translated, ‘may their fears become real, their resut binu – that’s evil dreams – a living torment. Not exactly revelatory, but intriguing from an academic point of view. Another tiny fragment of the mosaic.’
‘Does it get us any closer to the actual oasis?’
He grunted.
‘Not even a millimetre.’
He took the photo back, flipped through the rest of the pile one more time, then dropped them on the sofa and stood.
‘By all means get them enhanced, but I can tell you now there’
s nothing here,’ he said. ‘You’re wasting your time, Molly. They’re useless.’
He rolled his neck and walked across to a wooden cabinet on the far side of the room. Opening it, he pulled out a three-quarters-empty bottle of Bell’s whisky and a small tumbler.
‘Medicinal,’ he said, noting the disapproving look on Kiernan’s face.
He filled the tumbler, knocked it back in one slug and refilled it, replacing the bottle in the cabinet and returning to the sofa. For a while he just sat there, swirling the whisky around, the liquid lapping the inside of the glass like a dirty gold tongue. The hiss of streaming water could still be heard from the bathroom. Then, downing half the drink, Flin fixed his eyes on Kiernan. ‘There’s something else, Molly.’
She raised her eyebrows, tilted her head slightly.
‘I think someone might be hacking into your mobile.’
Kiernan said nothing, although the way her fingers suddenly stopped drumming suggested Flin’s comment had taken her by surprise.
‘When Freya arrived in Cairo she left a message on your voicemail,’ he went on. ‘Letting you know she was coming to see me at the university. Thirty minutes later a bunch of goons turn up and make straight for my office. It’s conceivable someone on campus was looking out for her and tipped Girgis off, but then when we were at the museum I also left a message on your voicemail. Result: the same bunch of goons appear out of nowhere and a good friend of mine gets his throat slit. It’s too much of a coincidence. Girgis has to be accessing your phone.’
Flin had known Kiernan for the best part of fifteen years, and in all of that time he had never once seen her look agitated. Until now.
‘That’s not possible,’ she said, standing. ‘That’s simply not possible.’
‘I can’t see any other explanation. Unless Freya’s lying or you’re working for Girgis, both of which I somehow doubt.’
Kiernan strode over to the table where her shoulder bag was sitting and pulled out her Nokia. She brandished it.
‘This is an Agency phone, Flin. It cannot be hacked. There are passwords, PINs, specialist IDs – it’s ring-fenced. Even the goddam Russians couldn’t get in.’
Another first. Never, ever had Flin heard Kiernan use an expletive. He took another sip of the whisky.
‘Someone in-house?’
She opened her mouth, closed it and bit her lip.
‘No,’ she said eventually. And again: ‘No. Not possible. The CIA does not go around gatecrashing its own operatives’ private communications. Sure the technology’s there, but to use it against an Agency employee – you’re talking top-level authorization here. It’s not … I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. There has to be some other explanation.’
Flin shrugged and downed the remainder of the whisky. Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he pulled out the card Angleton had given him back in the Windsor Hotel and handed it across.
‘Either way I think you should check this guy out.’
Kiernan took the card.
‘He’s been keeping an eye on me. Turning up in places he shouldn’t be turning up. At the museum for example, just as Girgis’s goons were hustling us away. I can’t prove anything, but I’d lay strong odds however they found out we were there, that’s how he found out. Whatever else he is, he sure as hell doesn’t work in Public Affairs.’
Kiernan was examining the card, eyes boring into it, her face suddenly devoid of colour, as though this last revelation had agitated her more than anything that had come before. The hiss of the shower tailed off, leaving the flat silent. Then, stepping over to her bag, Kiernan dropped the card and mobile into it and swung back to face Flin.
‘You’re getting out of Cairo,’ she said, her tone firm suddenly, authoritative. ‘Out of Egypt. Both of you. Tonight. It’s too dangerous. Things are getting out of hand. Have already got out of hand.’
‘No offence, Molly, but I’m a civilian, you can’t order me around. I do what I want.’
‘You want to end up dead?’
‘I want to find the oasis,’ he said, his eyes hard and unblinking. ‘And I’m not going anywhere till I do.’
For a moment it looked as if Kiernan was going to flare up at him. Instead she came over and put a hand on Flin’s shoulder.
‘Is this just about the oasis?’
He looked up at her and then down into his glass.
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning is there more to this than just an interest in Egyptology and a desire to stop Girgis?’
‘You’re sounding dangerously like a psychoanalyst, Molly.’
‘I was hoping I sounded like a friend who cares about you and doesn’t want you to get hurt.’
He sighed and laid his hand on Kiernan’s.
‘I’m sorry, that was churlish. It’s just, you know …’
He tailed off. Kiernan twisted her hand, clasped his.
‘What happened with the girl happened, Flin. It’s in the past, long in the past. And whatever debt of penance you might think you owe, you’ve more than paid it off by now. It’s time to let go.’
He continued staring down, mute.
‘I know how important this is to you,’ she said, ‘but right now I have enough on my plate without having to worry about you and Freya as well. Please, cut me some slack. Indulge an old woman and get out of town. At least until things have quietened down and I’ve dealt with all the fallout from the last twenty-four hours, which believe you me is going to be considerable.’
Flin lifted his glass to his mouth even though it was empty.
‘There’s more I can do,’ he mumbled.
‘Oh please, Flin!’ Kiernan shook her head, exasperated. ‘What more can you possibly do that you haven’t already done in the ten years you’ve been working with Sandfire? What? Tell me?’
‘I can go through my notes again. The satellite stuff. The magnetometry data – maybe I missed something.’
There was an edge of desperation to his voice, like a child trying to persuade a parent to let them stay up late, watch some forbidden television programme.
‘There has to be something,’ he insisted. ‘There has to be.’
‘Flin, you have gone through that stuff a thousand times. Ten thousand times and you’ve not yet found anything. It’s a dead end.’
‘I can go out to the Gilf … I can … I can …’
‘The only place you’re going is Cairo international airport where you’re getting on the first flight—’
‘I can go and see Fadawi.’ He practically shouted it.
‘I can go and see Hassan Fadawi,’ he repeated, looking up at Kiernan. ‘He’s been saying he knows something. About the oasis. That’s what I heard. It’s probably bullshit but at least I can go and talk to him.’
Kiernan opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. She stared at Flin through narrowed eyes, weighing things up.
‘You said he wouldn’t speak to you,’ she said eventually. ‘Said he’d rather cut out his own tongue.’
‘So he tells me to bugger off. It has to be worth a try. With the stakes this high it has to be worth a try, you can see that.’
He could sense her starting to weaken and pushed home his advantage.
‘I’ll go and see him. If he sends me packing I’ll do what you want – take a sabbatical, piss off back to England for a few weeks. Please, Molly, let me give it a go. I’ve come this far, for heaven’s sake. Don’t cut me out now. Not when there are still options open. Not now, not yet.’
She stood where she was, her hand coming up to the cross around her neck.
‘What about Freya?’
‘Well, in an ideal world she would get on the first flight out of here,’ he replied. ‘But from what I’ve seen of her so far she’s not going to go quietly.’
Kiernan folded her arms. Another pause.
‘OK,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Go talk to Fadawi. See if he knows anything. But if it’s a red herring …’
‘Then I’m out of h
ere. Spooks’ honour.’
He touched a hand to his forehead in mock salute.
She smiled, squeezed his shoulder again and walked across the room. Picking up a cordless phone from its holder on a bookcase beside the door, she disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later her voice could be heard: brisk, businesslike, instructing someone to arrange two emergency passports and check availability on all flights out of Cairo over the next twelve hours.
Flin was right, Freya didn’t go quietly.
She reappeared ten minutes later, dressed in the clothes Kiernan had found for her-jeans, shirt, cardigan, plimsolls. The outfit was a surprisingly good fit, although she’d had to turn up the jean bottoms and the shirt and cardigan were just a little too tight. She hadn’t bothered with the bra, which was three sizes too big.
When Kiernan explained what had been decided, that for her own safety she was going to be put on the next available flight out of Egypt, she refused point blank. She owed it to her sister to stay, she said, and wasn’t going anywhere till she had seen Girgis in either a police cell or a coffin. They tried to persuade her, tell her that there was nothing she could do that wasn’t already being done, but she was having none of it and insisted on going with Flin.
‘Here’s the score,’ she said, standing in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips. ‘Either we work together, or I go to the police. Or you keep me here against my will, which I’d like to see you try.’
She planted her feet and clenched her fists as if she was about to launch into a prizefight. Kiernan gave an impatient shake of the head. Flin smiled.
‘I think we’re fighting a losing battle, Molly. Freya and I will go and see Fadawi together, and if nothing comes of it we’ll fly out together.’
